


the wind, the rain, and the sunset

by aces_of_academia



Series: another variation on a theme [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Character, Blood, Confessions, F/F, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Guns, Hospitals, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Introspection, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, RvB Big Bang, background kimbalina, in which i torture tucker for 20k+, sorry bud
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:58:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9934910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces_of_academia/pseuds/aces_of_academia
Summary: Lavernius Tucker always thought he was straight.  It's just how he is.  He had no problem with this.  Then, Former Freelancer Agent Washington walks into his room at ass o'clock in the morning in tight booty shorts and promptly sends Tucker spiraling down an alarming sexuality crisis.Or: Tucker finally notices how hot Wash is, among other arguably more important things, and everything that happens next.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from velvet underground's 'i'll be your mirror'
> 
> my first attempt at tuckington/rvb fic in general; updates will......happen. hopefully. at some point. in the meantime, enjoy tucker Suffering and his friends giving him some terrible advice. next up will be grif, simmons, kimball, and More Suffering

One of the pros of moving into Armonia is that the city is fucking _huge_.

Thanks to the massive buildings and sprawling design and extensive underground developments, there’s plenty of space for the two armies to stash all of their equipment.  A multitude of storerooms for ammo and guns and various other instruments, plenty of garages and warehouses for vehicles and such, and a plethora of room in general for the men and women of the armies of Chorus to live.  It’s an huge improvement over the dingy, half-cave trashheap of a base the Rebels used to operate out of; now, they’ve upgraded to living in a space actually build for humans.

Another incredible plus to living in Armonia?  The living quarters themselves.

Because of the sheer number of buildings in the heavily-fortified city, there’s a multitude of bedrooms and apartments and such just _waiting_ to be used.  Back in the Rebels’ old base, Tucker had to share a room with Caboose thanks to the limited amount of space – and, due to Tucker being a light sleeper and Caboose being _Caboose_ , a good night of sleep became unheard of in the life of one Lavernius Tucker.

(Wash and the other being in the hands of the opposing army and their hired psychotic killer for weeks on end had nothing to do with it.  Of course not.)

But now?  Now, Tucker has his _own fucking room_ – and sure, he might have to live in Armonia’s main military building place, just for the sake of proximity and convenience for training and emergencies and stuff – but having his own space, all to himself?  Without Caboose constantly bothering him with every thought that wanders into his childlike brain?  Tucker’s grateful he got his friends back and all, and that Carolina and Church decided to stop ditching them for five goddamn minutes, and that the armies are getting along, but the peace and quiet he received at night from the simple act of the two armies merging is a blessing he counts as one of his highests.

Then again, despite this small luxury, Tucker is still in the army.  And some days, some people just love to slap him in the face with this particular fact.

Tucker is awake the second the door to his tiny room slides open with a low, metallic _clunk_.  Being a light sleeper, his eyes are wide open as soon as the noise reverberates through his cabin and harsh light spills in from the open doorway.  Or, rather, they’re squinting, in all of their sleep-sensitive, light-allergenic glory.  As soon as he’s not unconscious anymore, his mind immediately and groggily tries to grasp for a hold – or at least a _good reason_ – on why he’s awake at….

Tiredly, he glances at his clock.  It reads 7:00 AM _exactly._

For another long, grudging moment, he dazedly wonders why he’s awake and processing shit at seven in the morning, a time at which _nobody_ should have to do _anything_.  Ever.  Then, Tucker remembers the other reason why he woke up so easily at fuck-my-life AM: because he’s _used_ to it by now, thanks to–

“Up and at ‘em, Tucker!  Training starts in thirty!”

Tucker tries to suppress an exhausted groan and fails miserably.  _Nobody_ should be used to waking up so early – and yet, here he is.  And it’s the fault of one Agent motherfucking Washington.

Looking up blearily, Tucker sees the asshole Freelancer in question standing in the doorway, hands on his hips and a light smile on his face, authority radiating from every inch of his body.   Surprisingly, he’s still in his pajamas – a loose t-shirt and some astonishingly small spandex shorts – and his sandy-blond hair is mussed up from sleep.  Usually, when Wash comes to wake Tucker up at shitface o’clock in the morning, he’s already dressed in full armor, ready to kick Tucker’s ass with an unearthly amount of alertness for being awake so early.  But today is different, for whatever reason.

“Looks like someone got up a little late,” Tucker smirks, nodding at Wash’s disheveled state as he struggles to free his arms from his tangled sheets.

Wash raises an eyebrow, the stern smile of a commander on his lips.  “I could say the same to you,” he teases.  “I thought I told you yesterday – new wakeup time is 6:30 AM.  Guess you’re due for extra laps.”

“What?!” Tucker yells, dreadlocks whipping around his face as he sits up fast in his bed.  “The fuck, man, you never told me that!  That’s bullshit–”

“Kidding!  Just kidding,” Wash says, his grin widening at Tucker’s animated look of disbelief.

“Really?  It’s hard to tell with you,” Tucker replies, raising an eyebrow as his expression shifts to skepticism.

“It’s completely true, trust me,” Wash says, crossing his arms calmly.  “In fact, it’s quite the opposite; I thought we could all use a little extra sleep after the mission yesterday, so just for today, the official wakeup time is 7:15 AM.  However, since you’re especially prone to going back to sleep after I get you up, I thought it would be safe to wake you a little earlier than everyone else, just in case.”

“So basically, everyone else gets to sleep in except for me?” Tucker complains, resting one elbow on his pillow.  “That’s fucked, dude.”

Wash gives him a look.  “You say that like you’re _not_ going to just go back to sleep as soon as I leave, forcing me to come wake you up another three times.”

“Hey man, I’m a sleeper, not a fighter,” Tucker replies with a shrug and a smile, the old phrase comfortable and easy in his mouth.

Wash shakes his head, rolling his eyes as his hand fall back to his sides.  “ _Anyways_.  When you finally decide to get up, get to the mess hall and have a good breakfast.  Pile up on protein if you can.  Then come and join us at the training room floor – no later than thirty minutes from now, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” Tucker mutters, already settling back into his pillow.

“If you’re late, I’ll have Dr. Grey come and collect you.”

“Shit – you don’t have to threaten the psycho doctor, I’ll come!” Tucker says, giving Wash his best honest face.  “Seriously, it’s all good.  No need to page Dr. Nutcase.”

“If you say so,” Wash sings, a smile on his face as he turns to leave.

_It’s about damn time,_ Tucker thinks, watching Wash walk away.  _Now I can get back to sleep._   Distantly, Tucker notices that the shorts Wash is wearing are the ones Tucker gave him as a joke gift for his birthday, back when they were stuck at Crash Site Bravo for all those months.  Tucker just happened to find them in someone’s cabin on the ship and decided it would be hilarious to see Wash’s face as he unwrapped a pair of sky blue spandex shorts with “SWEET” spelled across the waistband on the back, right over the ass.  Unsurprisingly, Wash accepted them wholeheartedly and with only a hint of tired exasperation, saying with complete sincerity that he preferred spandex shorts to regular ones and that he appreciated the gift.  Tucker was left feeling vaguely disappointed – and yet, knew in retrospect that he should’ve seen this coming.  It’s Wash, after all; half the time, the guy can’t take a joke.  And the other half of the time, he’s either shooting something or making them run some bullshit drills.

_Ah, well, whatever,_ Tucker thinks, as Wash walks out the door, _at least his ass looks_ really _good in them._

Tucker rolls onto his back, fully prepared to take another precious twenty minutes of sleep in exchange for the extra laps he’ll probably be forced to do later for ignoring orders (instant gratification, anyone?) when he stops.

Wait.

Tucker opens his eyes, and stares at the metal wall above him, muscles frozen and mind racing a thousand miles an hour, because….

_Did I just… think… Wash has a nice ass…?_

He stays in his bunk for the next thirty minutes, and doesn’t sleep for a second of it.  In fact, he doesn’t move at all – even as Caboose peeks in to say Wash is asking for him, with Freckles growling out punishments for insubordination in his hands.  Even as Carolina comes to see what’s taking him so long, Church making smartass comments at her shoulder.  Even when Sarge comes in at Tucker’s half hour deadline and gives him a lump on his forehead with the butt of his shotgun, saying Wash will come by in the next minute if Tucker isn’t on the training floor first, running laps and doing an extra set of squats for taking so damn long.  And yet, Tucker doesn’t move.

Tucker doesn’t move, and he doesn’t say a word, because–

_What. The FUCK.  Was_ that.

~~~

It gets worse.

To start, since he’s already late for training, and it takes him fucking _forever_ to find his sword, Tucker ends up having to skip breakfast.  Then again, he wouldn’t’ve been able to eat regardless of his tardiness, because unsurprisingly, Grif apparently polished off all the food the mess hall had to offer for breakfast.  When Tucker shows up for training fifteen minutes late, armor hastily thrown on and stomach aching with hunger, Wash chews him out in front of all the other Reds and Blues (excluding Carolina, because she _definitely_ has more important things to do than train), along with the Lieutenants, before sending him on ten extra laps around the training floor, because Freelancers are apparently demons sent straight from hell just to torment all the normal fucking people in the world.  Tucker tries to fight back – honestly, he does – but every time he looks at Wash or hears him talk or even _thinks_ about him, Tucker’s mind is immediately flooded with the image that was burned into his retinas the second he processed the idea of it being fine as hell: Wash in those tiny, _tight_ spandex shorts.  As soon as that fucking image flashes in his mind’s eye, his brain freezes and his tongue suddenly doesn’t quite feel like it fits in his mouth anymore.  So in the end, he just kind of stares at Wash for a few seconds before turning around and running away – literally, as he resigns himself to his fate of those extra laps, all while beating himself up and thinking, repeatedly, _what the fuck is wrong with me?_

It doesn’t help that by the time Tucker finishes his extra laps and the rest of the warmup (naturally, Wash made him do double of _everything,_ for “setting a bad example, even _after_ I came and got you up” – which sends another round of ass images through his mind, thanks for that, Wash), everyone else has moved on to target practice.  Usually, Tucker doesn’t mind target practice; despite his sword being his primary weapon, he’s still pretty good with his gun after handling it for so many years (bow chicka bow wow).  Even though target practice can get kinda repetitive after a while, he still finds pleasure in finding just the right position to nail the target in the center, round after round.  Plus, being able to goat loudly about it afterwards, amidst Simmons bitching and Caboose yelling about nothing, is one of the few things that brings Tucker joy during these stupid training sessions.

_Today_ , however, the only thing Tucker finds himself capable of focusing on is Wash as the Freelancer walks up and down behind the targets – both a testament to his faith in their skills and a subtle warning to hit the target, lest they want to injure one of their best soldiers.  Wash’s kinda fucked-up tactic usually works – except for that time Simmons’s weak-as-hell nerves fucked him over and he clipped Wash in the shoulder with a stray shot.  _That_ was an amusing day at the infirmary: Simmons’s awkward, apologetic silence mixed with Wash’s thousand-yard stare (probably while internally wondering what he did to deserve this), as Dr. Grey patched the Freelancer up, humming happily.  Tucker almost died trying not to laugh.

Nevertheless, in the middle of finding his groove, Tucker accidentally shifts his gaze to Wash as he walks behind Tucker’s target – and since his mind is and always has been a cesspool of sexual instincts, his eyes immediately flick down to–

Tucker bites back a helplessly frustrated groan, because _fuck, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, his ass looks amazing even in power armor and a damn Kevlar undersuit?  Seriously?  And why can’t I stop thinking that his ass looks good that’s so weird I’m being weird what the fuck is_ wrong _with me–_

Unsurprisingly, Tucker doesn’t hit the center of the target once.  Maybe because he didn’t look at it a single time during the training session, his eyes too focused on catching every glimpse of Wash’s fantastic ass that he can.  Wash sends him on extra laps afterwards, sighing disappointedly.

Just as he’s about to resign himself to death, Tucker remembers what’s up next on the training schedule–

“Ah, _fuck me_ ,” he says loudly, startling a couple of Feds standing nearby.  Today they’re set to do hand-to-hand combat training for three hours until lunch – and not just hand-to-hand combat training.  No – of fucking _course_ , today they’re set to do _out-of-armor_ hand-to-hand combat training, which means everyone will be in regulation sleeveless shirts and those tight workout pants.  And, despite always enjoying seeing everyone in that outfit (especially the female soldiers), today, Tucker knows what it means.  Today, Tucker _knows_ he’s completely fucked, because as soon as he walks through the doors to the specified training room and sees Wash in that outfit, something in his chest plummets away and his brain fails completely.  The only reason he gets into the room at all is because Bitters shoves him out of the doorway, muttering a complaint under his breath as he does.  This is, of course, immediately followed by Palomo asking Tucker if he’s okay, because of course the Lieutenants travel in a pack at all hours of the day, but Tucker honestly _cannot_ be bothered with fucking _Palomo_ right now, because he’s too busy staring at the eye-candy Wash has become.

Very specifically, and with extreme care, Wash walks the Reds, Blues, and Lieutenants through a basic takedown: as a person moves in to attack, you block their punch, trap their arm, put a hand on their shoulder, plant your leg behind theirs, and trip them over.  Simple, effective, and mostly painless.  Wash hesitates, briefly, in the middle of the demonstration (with Andersmith trapped under him, maintaining his stoic expression even with however many pounds of Freelancer on top of him), before deciding against showing them what to do if they’re even taken down with this particular move, claiming – with a subtle glance in Caboose’s direction – that it might be best to stick to the basics of the drill for now.  He divides them up into pair with the instruction to rotate in order to work with people of different strengths and weights, before promptly walking to the corner with Caboose, with plans to spend the whole session with him, as usual.

Tucker, naturally, doesn’t hear a word of the instructions, and doesn’t actually do much during practice except numbly tell whoever his current partner is to just run the drill on him, yeah, it’s fine, he’ll get a turn in eventually, no, it’s okay, you can go, it’s all good.  This way, as he’s being thrown into the ground repeatedly, Tucker has all the time in the world to watch Wash in the corner with Caboose, and it’s not _fair,_ because – shit, if Wash’s ass looked good in Spandex shorts, and a Kevlar undersuit, it looks fucking _amazing_ in the tight, black, standard-issue workout pants.  Tucker simply watches wide-eyed as Wash moves, and marvels at the incredible feat of human posterior beauty that is Wash’s ass.

And _fuck._   Not only that, but as Wash traps Caboose’s arm under his own and slams the idiot to the ground, Tucker’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes – Wash doesn’t just have a nice ass.  His arms are fucking _incredible_ – well-toned and corded and impressively decorated with a vast collection of scar tissue and freckles.  Tucker blinks dazedly as Wash stretches his arms over his head, muscles prominent and _hot as fuck_ , before he rolls his shoulders – and holy shit, his shoulders are amazing too, what the fuck, what the _fuck_ – and steps forward to help Caboose up, one foot tapping on the ground.  The small motion catches Tucker’s eye, and his gaze is, inevitably, drawn to Wash’s calves.  Which are shapely and solid as _hell_.

_How have I not_ noticed _this before?_ Tucker thinks dazedly, _I have_ eyes, _how did I not – no, wait, I shouldn’t’ve even noticed in the first place, fuck, no no no, shit shit fucking_ fuck–

Tearing his gaze away, Tucker just happens to look up in time to see Wash bend over, and his ass is _beautiful_ , and in that moment, Tucker knows that he is well and truly fucked.

Even as Wash shows them the next step of the drill – blocking a series of punches from the person on the ground as they aim for the face of their attacker – it all goes through one ear and out the other for Tucker.  By the time Wash sends them back to their partners, the only thing Tucker’s managed to do is the same thing he’s been doing for the past four hours: angrily wonder why he’s so caught up on Wash’s _amazing_ body.  Looks like he won’t be storing this drill away in his mental file of “Cool Freelancer Ninja Moves To Break Out The Next Time I See Felix’s Stupid Face Or Helmet Or Whatever, Fuck That Guy”.

At one point, when Wash furiously leaves the room in search of Grif (who still somehow manages to evade every training session they have), Tucker actually manages to get one good takedown in against Simmons, executing the move as well as he can and sending the tall, gangly ginger to the floor.  Tucker allows himself to feel a little proud of this tiny victory amidst a day of fuck-ups – right up until Wash trudges back in with Grif in tow, and Tucker gets distracted long enough by the reappearance of the Freelancer to forget he’s in the middle of training, which also happens to be how long enough it takes for Simmons to punch him in the face, giving him a gushing bloody nose.

Wash’s disappointed sigh – his third one of the day – echoes in Tucker’s ears all the way to Dr. Grey’s office.  As she presses a wad of tissues to his face, the doctor cheerily asks how and why someone who’s been a soldier for as many years as Tucker got taken out during a training drill.  Tucker replies with nothing but a loud huff and a tired shrug.  Honestly, all he wants to do is wander around for a little, contemplate why the fuck he suddenly thinks Wash is hot, and then go lay down in his bunk and try to stave off the migraine that’s been coming on since Simmons punched him with his fucking metal robot hand, honestly, what the fuck, man.

“Take care!  Come back again with something more interesting, please!” Dr. Grey calls sweetly, waving as he walks away.  Tucker waves back half-heartedly, making a mental note to up his self-preservation instinct.  Also, to ignore Wash’s seemingly sudden hotness and pay attention to training, because they have a war to win and a couple of asshole mercs to fuck up, dammit.  He needs to _focus_ , and stop being so weird.

He does not, in fact, stop being weird.  During capture the flag after lunch, he spends the entire time spacey and distracted, dazedly flipping through his new mental images of Wash’s incredible body rather than focusing on the simulated mission at hand.  He ends up fucking the whole thing up for his team, moving to the wrong coordinates at the wrong time and getting himself, along with three others on his team, shot up by paintballs – courtesy of Grif and Simmons, those laughing jackasses.  That night, as Tucker spends a good two hours cleaning the paint from every crack and crevice of his armor, he manages to relax a little by convincing himself this is all temporary.  Today’s only an off day, he’s sure of it.  Tomorrow, in his mind, Wash will go back to being his commanding officer and good friend.  Tucker’s weird gay crush on him and his hot bod will come and go.  He just needs to sleep it off.  Everything will be normal in the morning.

Everything isn’t normal in the morning.  The first thing Tucker thinks of when he wakes up and looks at his glowing red clock is how he woke up the morning before, sending a series of mental images of Wash’s definitely-still-amazing ass through his head.  The second thing Tucker thinks when he wakes up is _FUCKING SHIT GODDAMN IT WHAT THE FUCK._

And it doesn’t stop – all week, all throughout training and meals and before he falls asleep at night, Tucker finds that the only thing he can think about is how amazingly and unfairly hot Wash is.  It doesn’t stop with his ass and arms and shoulders and calves, either; Tucker only continues to notice little things about Wash that make his stomach feel like it’s flipping around inside him.  His scarred, sturdy fingers and oddly perfect cuticles (Tucker suspects Donut; after what went down in Valhalla, Wash can’t seem to refuse the pink solider anything).  The freckles that trail over the bridge of his nose, safeguarding a scar that goes straight to the cartilage.  His oddly fluffy blond hair, and how it gets all ruffled right after he pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through it.  The way his eyes look more blue than blue-gray when the weak afternoon sunlight catches them.  His well-muscled… well, _everything._   The way he grins, quick and wry, when Carolina makes a rare joke, or any of them say or do something particularly stupid or endearing.  The gentleness in his expression that softens his entire body whenever he interacts with Caboose.  The smooth sureness of his actions as he does _anything_ involving fighting or some kind of weapon.  The completely different smile he gives Tucker when they talk and manage to not argue – a small, warm, and completely genuine thing, that _does_ things to Tucker’s heart.

As a week passes by at a slow, painful march, and Tucker’s mind remains in the gutter, he becomes fully conscious of one thing: he thinks Wash is hot.  Like, _everything_ about him.  Without a doubt, and in a completely and totally gay way.

_Shit.  I need help._

~~~

“So basically, I’m fucked.  Completely and utterly _boned_.  And not even in a fun way.  Bow chicka bow wow.”

Carolina and Church exchange a look before glancing back to Tucker.  “…. And why might that be?” Carolina asks cautiously, stirring her tea slowly with a spoon.

Tucker sighs, loud and long, as he digs his hands into his dreads and presses his forehead to the table.  “Wash,” he mutters, voice warped as he presses his face into the cool metal surface of the mess hall table.  “Agent mother fucking Washington.”

“What about him…?” Church asks cautiously.

Tucker snaps upright, dreads flipping over his shoulders.  “He’s, like–”  He whips around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, before dropping his voice to a whisper, “–he’s _hot_.”

Church stares for a moment before giving a little snort of laughter; at that, the frustration building in Tucker’s chest moves him to glare at the AI.  Carolina, on the other hand, simply watches him as she takes a sip of her tea, an unimpressed look on her scarred face.

“Tucker,” she starts; slowly, patience dripping from every syllable, “why are you telling us this?”

“I mean – I have no idea how it took _you_ of all people this long to figure that out,” Church snorts, “especially when anyone with _eyes_ could’ve told you that.”

Tucker recoils, ignoring Carolina’s question in favor of giving the AI a bewildered look.  “And what the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?  Like, besides the obvious, of course.”

Church chuckles and shakes his head a little like he knows something no one else does – until he realizes Tucker is still staring at him, silently demanding an explanation.  All of the humor drains from his voice, replaced with disbelief as he replies.  “Tucker, you can’t be serious.”

Making a confused and indignant sound, Tucker opens his mouth to deliver a stinging and incredibly clever retort – before Carolina both holds up one hand in front of Tucker and calmly swipes her other hand through Epsilon’s hologram, a silent signal for the both of them to _stop._   “Okay, that’s enough out of you, Church; you’re not helping.”  Taking Church’s grumbling as acceptance of this fact, Carolina turns back to Tucker, her gaze serious.  “Tucker.  Why did you come to me and Church?”

Tucker gives Church one last suspicious squint before turning to Carolina and smirking widely.  “C’mon, Carolina.  I know that whatever weird gay crisis I’m having, you of all people can definitely help me with it.”

“And why is that?” Carolina asks cautiously, raising her tea to take another sip.

Tucker rolls his eyes.  “Carolina, please.  You haven’t been able to take your eyes off Kimball for _weeks_ now.”

Carolina chokes on her drink as Church gives a loud cackle of delight.  “Oooo, he _got_ you, Sis!” Church laughs loudly, his tiny hologram body holding his sides as Carolina sputters.  “You just got fucking _busted!_ ”

“I don’t – what could you possibly – that’s _ridiculous_ , Tucker–” Carolina stammers, trying to remain calm and failing as she puts her mug down and knits her fingers together clumsily.

“For fuck’s sake – I caught that little stunt you pulled, after that mission the other week,” Tucker interrupts, raising an eyebrow at the agitated Freelancer.  “The one where Kimball got that minor concussion from the grenade blast?  Don’t think I didn’t catch you holding her hand _just to keep her steady_ as you guys got off the Pelican.  Plus, you can’t keep your eyes off of her during meetings – _and_ , I totally saw you staring at her the other day in the mess hall.  You looked, like, _ridiculously_ lovesick.”  Tucker smirks widely.  “Trust me, Carolina.  You can’t get anything by me.”

Carolina turns an impressive shade of red to match her hair.  Church howls with laughter.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Carolina growls, gritting her teeth as Church continues to cackle, Tucker continues to look smug as hell, and her blush doesn’t fade in the slightest.  “ _Church._ ”

Church wipes away a fake tear from his fucking helmet, shaking his head a little.  “Okay, alright, I’m done,” he sighs, the last of his laughter ringing in his words.  “Anyways – that doesn’t really explain much, Tucker.  You caught onto Carolina’s little crush, so what?”

“ _So what?!_   So she has a gay crush, that’s what!” Tucker yelps, gesturing wildly with his hands.  “If anyone can help me sort out–”

“Well, it’s not gay, but – whatever, keep going,” Church adds, prompting a start from Carolina.

“–this whole thing… with…. Wait, what?”

Church crosses his arms.  “Technically, it’s not gay.  Well – I mean, it _is_ – but – rather, Carolina isn’t.”

“Church.”

“What?  It’s pretty obvious already – and he should know anyways, since he’s also probably–”

“ _Church_ ,” Carolina says warningly, giving him a look.  Church turns to meet her gaze; for a moment, they stare at each other, giving Tucker the feeling they’re having a telepathic conversation or something.  Then, Carolina calmly picks up her tea, and Church turns back to Tucker, hands falling to his sides.

“Well?” Tucker presses.

“Well, it’s not gay.  Carolina’s bi,” Church answers casually, jabbing a thumb at his partner.  Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I am too, if that counts for anything.”

Tucker stares at him for so long his eyes start to ache from the artificial brightness of the AI’s hologram.  Then, in a truly Caboose-like fashion, he recoils a full fifteen seconds later, a look of complete incredulity on his face.

“Dude, _WHAT?!_ ”

“Okay, okay, okay – there’s no need to _shout_ ,” Church stresses, tiny hands moving in pacifying gestures.  “Geez, is that really _that much_ of a shock?”

“Well – I mean, not for _her–_ ” Tucker points accusingly at Carolina, who raises an eyebrow at him, “–but you, Church – dude!”

“What?” Church asks, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“What do you – dude, you totally never said _anything_ about you being – like–”  Tucker gestures wildly with his hands, trying to catch words like elusive butterflies.

“Being _what?!_ ” Church demands, screechiness starting to edge its way into his voice.

“Like – half gay!”

Carolina gives a snort of laughter as Church rolls his head in an over-exaggerated eye-rolling motion.  “Tucker… shut the fuck up,” Church groans.

“What, is that not how it works?” Tucker demands, staring at them questioningly.

“No, that’s not… God, I _don’t_ want to get into this right now, can we just get back to roasting him?” Church groans, directing the last part of his statement to Carolina as he massages the temple of his helmet with one hand.

“Fine by me,” she replies easily, sending Tucker another unsettlingly predatory look.

“O-kay, that sounds like fun for the whole family and everything but I’d rather get back to you guys giving me some useful advice, if that’s fine with everyone,” Tucker replies quickly, eyeing Carolina suspiciously.

Carolina and Church exchange another one of those we’re-secretly-having-a-telepathic-conversation-right-now looks before they glance back at Tucker in unison.

“Okay,” Carolina says slowly, “what do you want to know?”

“More like what do you _want_ to hear?” Church asks, a smirk in his voice.

Tucker frowns at them both for a moment before groaning and hunching forward, resting his chin on the cool metal table.  “I _want_ you to tell me this is just a temporary thing – that it’s all gonna pass by in another week or so.”

Church chuckles knowingly at that, shaking his head a little.  “Ah, here it is, folks – the Gay Denial,” he says proudly, crossing his arms.

“Wait, why are you saying it like that?”  Tucker squints at him.  “Why are you saying that like it’s a _thing?_ ”

This time, Church laughs, short and obnoxious.  “Because it _is_ a thing,” Church tells him condescendingly.  Tucker can practically see the look on his stupid face, with the way his tiny arms are crossed and his helmet leans towards him, emoting an annoyingly _knowing_ look.

“Dude, that’s _so_ not a thing–”

“Tucker,” Carolina interrupts.  “Do you think you’re gay?”

Immediately, Tucker snorts.  “No way, man,” he says, sitting up as he shakes his head and crosses his arms.

Church holds out both hands to gesture to Tucker, turning to Carolina with exasperation bleeding from his posture.  “See?  I’m not wrong, C.”

“Tucker,” Carolina says authoritatively, “try thinking before you answer the question.  Really _consider_ the weight behind it.  Now, I’ll ask you again: do you think you’re gay?  Even the smallest bit gay?”

Tucker leans back and snorts, crossing his arms as he dismisses the idea readily.  _Why don’t they_ get _it – I’m totally not gay!  I like women, not men, for fuck’s sake.  Just ‘cause Wash is kinda really hot totally doesn’t… mean…._

In the midst of his denial, images from the last week flip through his head – all of them being things he didn’t pick up on until the past few days.  Wash’s amazing body; his legs, his shoulders and arms, and most of all, his _ass_.  The bliss on his face when he takes his first sip of coffee in the morning.  That tiny smile he gives to everyone at the end of a particularly successful training session.  The way the sunlight catches his face, hair glowing white-gold and eyes shining sky blue as he sighs in content.  The quietly happy look on his face as he pulls on his armor first thing in the morning, because Tucker knows he feels safer and more comfortable with his armor on and _fuck, how do I know that,_ why _do I know that – unless–_

 “Shit,” Tucker groans, cutting off his train of thought by burying his head in his hands.  “This is so fucking gay.”

“Really?” Carolina asks dryly.  “I hadn’t noticed.”

“But–”  Tucker pulls his head back up, his expression furiously conflicted.  “That totally doesn’t make _me_ gay!”

“Uh-huh,” Church drones, obviously unconvinced.

“It doesn’t!”

“Right, sure!”

Tucker glares at him for another moment before groaning loudly.  “This sucks _balls_ ,” he whines, dropping his head on the table in defeat.

“Not _yet_ , at least,” Church snickers, earning a snort of laughter from Carolina.

“ _Guys this is serious,_ ” Tucker stresses, digging his fingers into his scalp.  “I mean… what the fuck am I gonna _do?_ ”

Carolina sighs a little.  “Tucker, it’s a bit obvious.”

When Tucker does nothing except stare at her, his face painted with confusion and lack of comprehension, she sighs again.  “Well, first, you have to figure out whether or not these feelings are legitimate.  Are you sure your feelings are romantic, sexual, or both – and are you absolutely sure you have these feelings for Wash?  Furthermore, did Wash’s attractiveness trigger these feelings in you, or have you always had them and suppressed them without realizing it?  Ah – gay feelings, that is.”

“Uh….”  Tucker blinks, a painful mix of dread and overwhelmed nausea blooming in his stomach.  This is _so_ not what he signed up for when he stormed over here and dropped that painstakingly-thought-out sex joke.

“Considering your feelings for him were caused by his looks, is this simply physical attractiveness, or are you really in love with him?  Do you want to date him, or just have sex with him?”

“Uh – I don’t–” Tucker starts, suddenly wanting to be as far away from this conversation as possible.  Church, noting this, glances up at Tucker, his gaze flicking back and forth between his sister and the aqua soldier.

“Um, C?  Maybe cool it on the questions, a little?” Church suggests, raising one hand a little as he speaks – but it’s too late.

“Have you thought, at all, about having sex with him?  Not – um, well, not about actually _having sex_ with him, but have you considered what it would be like?  That could help you discern the core of your feelings–”

“OKAY NOPE, THAT IS OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE, I AM OUT,” Tucker says loudly, standing up suddenly and swinging his legs out from under the table.  Leaving his lunch behind, he strides quickly for the door, Carolina calling after him, “Just think about it, Tucker – and think about it fast!  We have a war to fight!” amidst Church’s endless cackling at this ridiculous fucking situation.

“You fucking… gay-ass homosexual…” Church laughs, and Tucker grits his teeth, frustration building inside him.  “Can’t fucking _believe_ this–”

“Shut the FUCK UP CHURCH,” he yells, not bothering to turn around as he storms out.  Church seems to laugh even harder at that, much to Tucker’s endless irritation.

But…

He frowns a little; even as he walks away as fast as he can, the knowledge that his quick flight was truly initiated by the words ‘ _are you really in love with him?_ ’ sitting heavy in his heart.

~~~

“ **Please, put down that alien artifact. I don’t want to fix it for the fifteenth time today.** ”

“You’re right, Lopez – I _do_ look pretty cool with this laser rifle!”

“ **Why do I even try.** ”

“So, maybe do you think I could pull this off with a OH MY GOODNESS!!”

“ _Please_ don’t yell,” Tucker groans, dumping his gun on the ground as he stumbles towards the armory.  With a long, loud sigh, he rips his trashed helmet off his head, drops it carelessly behind him, and sits heavily on a crate, his dreads swinging into his face.

“Oh _hey,_ Tucker – I couldn’t tell it was you with all that dirty stuff on your armor!” Donut says cheerily, his helmet tipping to one side perkily.  “What’s up with that, anyways?”

“ **I don’t care,** ” Lopez drones, turning away to stack missile launchers.

“You can blame _this_ on my latest mission,” Tucker mutters contemptuously, gesturing dully to the mud coating his entire body.  In line with his shitty luck as of late, he just spent the past seven hours running a recon mission for Kimball.  Hell, he fucking _volunteered_ for it, seeing it as a welcome distraction from all the shit swirling around in his brain that he can’t quite understand just yet.  He soon came to regret his decision, however, when he found himself lying on a cold, muddy cliff outside one of Charon’s bases from eight at night to three in the fucking morning.  Suffice to say, Tucker’s gonna take the day off tomorrow – no, wait – not tomorrow, _today_.  Fucking hell.  All-nighters can go suck a cock; he’s gonna dump his gun here for maintenance, drop off his armor for cleaning, and spend the rest of the day soaking in the bath.  In his mind, he’s earned it.

Though, he _should_ be grateful that the lack of action gave him a chance to think about the talk he had with Carolina and Church a few days ago without running the risk of messing something up.  Unfortunately, he was also too busy freezing his ass off and shivering at the feeling of cold mud seep under his armor to appreciate the quiet and actually think.  In the end, he wasted his time getting trapped in an endless cycle of dazedly thinking about Wash’s mind-blowing shoulders and then chastising himself for it.

“That’s cool, that’s cool!  Sooooo… what can we do for ya?” Donut asks, pulling Tucker from his thoughts.

Tucker sighs again.  “Oh, I dunno,” he says, waving a hand in the air lazily; flecks of dried mud fall off at the motion.  “Gimme something to distract me from thinking about the last seven hours of my life that just completely went to waste?”

Donut taps the chin of his helmet with his finger.  “Well, I _do_ know a pretty impressive Magic Mike routine–”

“ **Please, no,** ” Lopez says monotonously.

“Oh, Christ, forget I even asked,” Tucker groans, dragging a hand down his face.  When he brings his head back up, however, it’s to the hiss and click sound of a helmet’s seals releasing, and he soon finds himself raising an eyebrow at Donut’s white, white grin matching his twinkling eyes.

“Tucker,” Donut begins, and Tucker realizes Donut is watching him with a _look_ – he can’t quite name it, but it makes him think, _shit, are we friends? I think that’s a concerned friend kinda look_ , “are you doin’ okay?  You seem to be acting kinda… _weird_ lately.  Even Lopez has noticed!”

“ **Keep me out of this,** ” Lopez replies dryly.

Tucker shrugs a little.  “Oh, y’know…” he waves his hand, faux-nonchalantly, “according to Church, I’m suffering from some bullshit called ‘Gay Denial’.”

Lopez stands up, drops the rocket launcher he’s holding, and walks away.  Donut, on the other hand, grabs the sides of his face and lets out a disturbingly high-pitched screech that has Tucker grabbing for his ears.

“Jesus F. Christ, where’s the fire–!” Tucker chokes out, just before Donut grabs him around the neck and yanks him into a bone-crushing sort of hug-chokehold combo.  Fucking _damn_ , Tucker knows the guy has a great throwing arm, but he’s about three seconds from losing consciousness via asphyxiation, for fuck’s sake.

“Oh my gosh, Tucker, I’m so _excited_ for you!  See, this is just what I told you – you’ve been due for a bisexual awakening, ever since the desert–”

“Hey man,” Tucker interrupts, jabbing a finger at Donut, “don’t fuckin’ forget; what happens in the desert _stays_ in the desert.”

Donut nods hurriedly, a barely-contained smile on his face as he pulls back and raises his hands in mock surrender.  “No problem!” he chirps, and Tucker sighs a little, wondering quietly how he was able to survive months in the desert with such a chipper guy.

Oh, right.  Because he wasn’t jaded as fuck from a weird gay crisis yet.  Or, you know, Church dying, and the fucking Meta trying to kill them, and Agent Washington making his life miserable, and Church zapping himself away into a memory storage unit, and all of them crash-landing on a fucked-up backwater planet stuck fighting itself thanks to an evil corporation.  Yeah, his life’s been real swell these past few years.  Really fantastic.

….And _shit_ , Donut’s still staring at him.  “Dude, what?” Tucker asks tiredly.

“What do you mean, _what?_ ” Donut scoffs, as if Tucker’s being ridiculous and also has more than three hours of sleep – you know, a normal amount of rest to be able to deal with this.  “Who’s the lucky man, Tucker?”

Tucker grimaces.  “Nobody,” he insists.  When Donut raises a skeptical eyebrow, clearly not settling for anything less than the truth – well.  Unstoppable force, meet immovable object.  “ _Seriously_ , Donut.  It’s nobody’s business, least of all yours or Lopez’s.”

“ **I’m not listen to this.  I don’t care,** ” Lopez calls back.  “ **In fact, I’m shutting my hearing off.  Good luck, morons.** ”

“Thanks Lopez – that _is_ a really good idea!”

“ **NOT LISTENING.** ”

“C’mon dude, you don’t know what he’s saying,” Tucker scoffs, planting his elbow on a crate of grenades and propping his head up on his palm in some kind of effort to stay semi-awake.  Glancing back up at Donut seems to do the trick, however, because the pink-armored soldier is staring at him with another _look._   This one, while less judge-y than the other one, is a _fucking terrifying force of nature_.  Tucker flinches away, averting his eyes quickly – boy, is he awake now – but it’s too late.  He’s already seen it – those wide, innocent eyes.  That happy, tight-lipped smile.  The slight tilt of his head.  And worst of all – the _innocence_ in his eyes, informing Tucker and all other who have seen this look that Donut isn’t _trying_ to look like a murderous puppy, he just wants something and he makes that face when he’s like that.  His helmet usually solves that problem, but….

Tucker wrinkles his nose, feeling his exhausted and worn-out resolve crumble like wet sand.  Unstoppable force, meet actually-kinda-movable object.  Dammit.

“Ugh – it’s Wash,” Tucker mutters, burying his face in his hands and immediately regretting it when he feels grit smear across his otherwise-clean face.  “Fuck you.”

Donut lets out a gasp of delight.  Somewhere behind him, Lopez drops something heavy and metal with a loud _clang_.

“Oh, Tucker, _finally!_ ” Donut cries in delight, which, _no_ , that’s _not_ what he wanted to hear.  What does that even – no, okay, he doesn’t care right now.  That’s a question for another day.  A day when his mind isn’t working off of a sparse two hours of sleep.

“No – no, no, not _finally_ ,” Tucker insists, shaking his head frantically.  “This is total bullshit!  I can’t stop thinking about him, and I can’t _focus_ , because I’m _so_ not supposed to be thinking this kind of thing – especially about _Wash_ , because he’s my friend and it’s not _right_ – so now I’m fucking up in training and in missions and _everything!_   It’s a pain in the ass, okay?  I can’t – I don’t wanna deal with this kind of shit!”

“Hmm… that doesn’t sound like much fun at all,” Donut says sympathetically, tilting his head.  “Well, if you’re so hard-set against it…. What’s your coping technique?”

Tucker frowns at him.  “What’re you talking about?  Why would I… what kinda… wait – wait!”  Tucker stands up suddenly, staring at Donut like he’s a genius.  “Coping techniques!”

“Yeah!  That’s what I said!”

“Dude, yeah!  I could try – what’s it called – repression!  Yeah, that shit!” Tucker says excitedly, a grin rising on his face.  _Finally_ – some kind of solution to this mess.

“Just like what I did to my gag reflex!”

“Yeah – shit, that’s a great idea!  I can ignore all this stuff, and it’ll go away – that makes sense, right?”  Tucker turns to Donut, of all people, for validation for his sudden stroke of genius.

“Um… why not?”  Donut shrugs, an optimistic smile on his face.  “Just pretend like everything is normal, and that’s how it should end up!”

“ **That’s a terrible idea,** ” Lopez yells from behind them.  “ **This is going to fail.  Like everything else you people have ever tried to do.** ”

“That’s the spirit, Lopez!”

“ **Shut it, you monolingual moron.** ”

“Alright – okay, alright, good,” Tucker says, letting out a deep sigh of relief.  This is great – seriously, this is an awesome idea.  How come he didn’t think of it before?  All he has to do is flat-out ignore all these gay thoughts he’s been having.  They’ll have to go away _eventually_ ; then, he’ll be able to focus during missions and training and _life in general._   Carolina and Church can go stuff it – this is a way better idea than actually _thinking_ about it.  And it’s an absolute lifesaver from the possibility of Wash finding out.  Tucker shivers at the mere thought of the former Freelancer catching wind of his weird-ass gay crush – though it’s quickly chased away by the euphoria rising within him at finally finding a solution to this whole mess.

“Are you sure about it, though?”

“Huh?”  Tucker snaps from his thoughts and glances up.  Donut is watching him with a… look.  A strangely _knowing_ look.

“Well…. Are you _sure_ that’s the position you want to take?” Donut asks.

“I – yes!  Of course it is!” Tucker says – even as the look Donut’s sending him spears a tiny bolt of doubt through his heart.

_No – no, this is the best thing to do,_ he thinks, and crushes the doubt from his heart.  He’s sure of it.  Donut’s just a romantic – it doesn’t mean anything.

“If you’re sure.”  Donut smiles at him sweetly, that _look_ of his abandoned.  “So – you need anything else, Tucker?”

“Oh, right – I just need some maintenance for my gun, ‘cause it got mud stuck in it just about everywhere,” Tucker says, hoisting his gun up and dropping it on the crates in front of Donut.  Dried mud crumbles off of the metal and scatters everywhere; Tucker, however, ignores it in favor of squinting at Donut as he finally realizes something he didn’t notice before due to lack of sleep.  “Hold up – where are Grif and Simmons?  Don’t they usually run this place?”

“Oh, they said something about ‘counting their goods before throwing everything away in the newest betting pool’ or something.”  Donut waved a hand nonchalantly – though it did nothing to calm Tucker’s sudden nervousness at the mention of a new betting pool.  _That_ certainly doesn’t sound good.  “They asked if Lopez and I could cover, and we were happy to!”

“ **That’s an over-exaggeration if I’ve ever heard one** ” Lopez says, “ **and then been unable to reply to because my idiot creator programmed me with a language barrier.  Fucking moron.** ”

“Yep, that’s cool,” Tucker says with an absent little nod.  Every possible fuck he could ever give about whatever betting pool Donut just mentioned melts away, because – honestly?  Tucker doesn’t have enough sleep, or patience, or _fucks to give_ to deal with whatever bullshit that is.  It might come back and bite him in the ass, but dammit, he just can’t care right now.  Especially with this new solution to his recent gay thoughts.

“Okay, so anyways, I’ve got a date, so I’m just gonna fuck right on outta here if you guys don’t mind.”

“ **We don’t.  Get out.  Please.** ”

“Oooo – a date with _Wash_ , maybe–?”

“With a _bathtub_ – shut the fuck up, you’re already ruining my repression!”

~~~

As it turns out, Tucker’s brilliant plan has one drawback: repression is _hard_.

Every Thursday, Tucker and Wash get together to lift weights, practice hand-to-hand combat – something Carolina insisted they _both_ needed to work on – fool around with Tucker’s sword technique and Wash’s knife throwing, and lastly, unwind by ways of take a light run around the city.  It’s a chance for them to chill out, and talk, and relax together.  It’s one of the only times they get to themselves – like after Wash had just barely joined Blue team at Sidewinder, and they didn’t know each other at all, and had to start from the very beginning.  Like the crash site, where they were constantly bickering and running drills and living together, and despite everything it all seemed to _fit_.

Before, Tucker acknowledged their weekly workout as something smart, and logical – why _wouldn’t_ he take time to work out with Wash?  The guy’s a fitness nut, and they have a war to win.  For that, Tucker needs to be in the best shape possible.  It makes sense.

Now, Tucker cringes as he realizes – they have a separate workout day together.  Alone.  Just the two of them.  For _hours_.  How that must look to other people, he doesn’t know.

_It’s pretty gay,_ a snide little voice whispers in the back of Tucker’s head – a voice that doesn’t quite sound like his own.  He frowns, his nose wrinkling, and pushes it back.  No.  He can’t make this weird – he needs to focus.  Tucker already skipped their weekly workout last week, feigning exhaustion from a brief mission the previous day; he can’t miss it again.  He has to pretend things are normal, like Donut said.  Everything is gonna be normal.  Everything will go _back_ to normal – he’s almost sure of it.

Besides, he actually has something _else_ to think about now; two nights ago, on his way back from the bathroom in the Blues’ hallway, he found Kimball standing outside his door, fully armored and holding two datapads.  After giving Tucker a smack on the back of the head for approaching her in nothing but a towel – what, was he gonna wear his still-trashed, mud-painted _armor_ just out of the bath or something? – Kimball handed the datapads over.

“Two missions,” she told him as he took the datapads.  “The first is a supply run, cut and dry; the second is a strategically valuable former base of the Federal Army that Charon managed to snatch in the confusion of the civil war’s end.  All we have so far are the locations scoped out and a vague understanding of security and guard rotations, thanks to Agent Carolina.  The rest – our infiltration strategy, picking out squads for both missions, choosing acceptable times and days to invade – is up to you.  I think it’s about time for you to help organize this kind of thing, Captain Tucker.”

Tucker looked up at that, a protest ready on his lips at her hardened tone – only to find her shoulders set and eyes warm.  In that moment, he recognized this for what it was: an act of trust.  She was giving these mission to him and thus, putting faith in him – trusting him with the lives of her soldiers, and the results of these missions she expected and _knew_ he would obtain.

“About time, Kimball,” he finally said, a grin spreading on his face.  “Don’t worry about a thing; I got this.”

Kimball smiled a little in reply, countenance teeming with reserved pride.  “I know you do, Tucker.  After everything you’ve shown me you’re capable of, I believe in you.”

Of course, as she walked away, Tucker found a little seed of doubt forming in his mind as he stared down at the datapads.  Could he do something as complex as planning a couple of missions when at the moment, even basic training was proving a challenge?  He couldn’t focus at all; too wrapped up in confusion and self-doubt and his sudden recognition of Wash’s hotness to think straight – _literally_.  What if he made a mistake along the way?

And then he remembered the mission with Felix and his squad, where more than half of his men didn’t come back, and he thought, _not again._

As he thought about it, something like a simple crush on a friend fell below a task as important as this.  Before, he was distracted by the idea of Wash and the others being held captive by the evil opposing army and fucking Locus, the silent, psychopathic killer mercenary.  Now, it’s different.  He can’t afford to fuck this up; he just _can’t_.  That knowledge alone drives determination into his heart, steeling him against all doubt.

Now, the thought of the datapads and the information they hold – the beginning of the first missions Kimball’s allowed him to plan out on his _own_ – keeps him tied to reality.  He just has to think about all the data he reviewed last night and repress his weird gay thoughts, and act like nothing’s changed.  Easy enough.  He’ll be able to do it.  It’ll be fine.

Then, Wash walks around the corner leading to Tucker’s room – and as Tucker looks at him, all thoughts of missions and repression vanish into thin air as he groans internally.

Since every deity that ever existed must hate Tucker’s guts or something, Wash is wearing those tight black workout capris again and a loose, sleeveless shirt with the neck cut out.  Thanks to that, the neckline rides low, giving a beautiful view of Wash’s collarbones and teasing his pecs.  The holes for the sleeves hang low as well, giving Tucker a glimpse of Wash’s sides – scars stretching across pale skin with nothing but hardened muscle underneath.  His arms look like the product of an old Greek guy taking a hammer and chisel to a hunk of marble.  The pants hug his legs _perfectly_ , showing off his amazingly toned calves and thighs so well Tucker might’ve thought of the tight black fabric as another layer of skin if not for the difference in color.  The only part of his outfit that _doesn’t_ turn Tucker on are his sneakers, pale blue and sensible.

_Fuck me, please,_ a different little voice says in Tucker’s head.  This one sound more like him, and he doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.  Instead of thinking about it, he shoves the thought deep, deep down, retrieves his jaw from the floor, and walks forward to meet Wash, pulling a smile up on his lips.  For the first time in his life, he prays it doesn’t look sexy or predatory.

“Hey Wash, what’s up?” he says as a greeting.  _Good so far.  Keep it casual – it’s just Wash, after all._

Then, Wash gives him a small smile that turns his insides to mush and dissolves his brain into a weak mantra of _ohh noooo_.  “Things are going pretty well.  I was just training with the Lieutenants – their aim has improved remarkably.  I’ve even gotten Bitters to stop slacking as much; Grif calls it a miracle, but I call it _discipline._ ”  He gives Tucker another warm smile, and Tucker thinks, _ah, fuck._

“Ah – yeah – cool, man!” Tucker manages, mentally smacking himself at his own completely awful stuttering tone.  _Great job, you complete fucking failure._   Thankfully, Wash only raises an eyebrow as they make their way to the weight room, Tucker forcing himself to keep his mouth as shut as possible to avoid potential humiliation.

Ultimately, he fails.

First, when Tucker takes out his sword hilt to practice, he ends up so distracted by Wash’s pecs (because holy _shit_ , are they impressive, and that shirt shows them off so incredibly he could die) he ends up almost activating it – with Wash standing right in front of him.  He almost stabs Wash through the chest with his alien energy sword.  And almost kills him.  The only reason Wash doesn’t end up bleeding out is because he noticed the spaced-out look in Tucker’s eyes, along with the direction the sword was pointing, and managed to utilize those quick Freelancer reflexes to redirect Tucker’s aim just in time before he became barbecue.

They both spent a solid minute standing there, frozen, Wash’s hand gripping Tucker’s arm hard enough to nearly cut off his circulation and the only sound in the room being the buzz of the sword, suddenly shaken by what almost just happened.

Tucker apologized shamelessly afterwards, mentally cursing himself for being such a fucking moron and getting distracted again and _almost killing Wash in the process_.  The Freelancer in question, on the other hand, waves him off after a quick scolding.

“You have to pay attention to your surroundings, Tucker,” he says sternly to the aqua soldier, who begin spacing out as soon as he hears the lecturing tone of Wash’s voice – partially because Wash’s speeches are boring as hell, and partially due to the shock still making its way out of his system.  “We’re in the middle of a war here, and there’s no room for messing around or getting distracted….”

Suffice to say, as soon as Wash notices Tucker’s lack of attention, he sighs, shakes his head, and motions for them to move on to sparring, abandoning their apparently-cursed blade practice for the day.

Predictably, hand-to-hand combat doesn’t go well for them either – though at least this time, Tucker can say it’s not entirely his fault.  Sure, every time he ends up with his hands on Wash’s _anything_ he has to make an actual, physical effort not to groan or smash his mouth against Wash’s or start stroking his muscles – but at least he ends up blocking most of Wash’s hits and somehow _doesn’t_ get his ass handed to him.  Okay, Wash is probably-definitely-totally toying with him, being a kickass super-strong Freelancer and all – but even with Tucker’s limited experience, he’s gotta say Carolina’s right; Wash might be a whole lot better than Tucker, but he’s not any kind of martial arts prodigy.  The mere fact that Tucker notices this, even with Wash going so easy on him, makes him think – it’s probably, or at least possibly, because of the increasing amounts of action he’s seen in the past few years and even the past few months, showing him the good, the _really_ good, and the bad.  More than that, he must actually be absorbing it in some way, to notice the difference in Wash’s fighting even while engaging with him himself.  The idea is a small blip of pride in Tucker’s otherwise doubt- and guilt-consumed brain.

Actually, Tucker notices a little more than Wash just handling him with kid gloves.  Wash must be distracted or something, too, because even his movements are slower and off-kilter than they should be.  Maybe he’s still thinking about the way Tucker almost fucking _stabbed_ him, or maybe he’s distracted by Tucker’s own hotness – _wishful thinking_ , Tucker chides himself sharply, a storm of confusion and a bunch of other messy feelings brewing in his chest – or just some kind of dramatic Freelancer thing.  Either way, most of their sparring match is disjointed and just kind of terrible, and by the time fifteen minutes have passed, Wash is waving for Tucker to join him for weightlifting, a disgruntled frown on his face as they leave the sparring mats.

As they pull out weights for benching, Wash takes a moment to stretch his arms, locking his fingers together and raising his hands above his head with a soft groan.  Tucker, forever unlucky, happens to look over just as Wash’s shirt rides up, showing off a sliver of pale skin littered with scars – and best of all, a sneak peek at what looks like a rippling six-pack.

The resulting backlash of sexual arousal is so strong that Tucker’s stomach drops away and he stares at Wash, slack-jawed, until the other looks at him with a confused look on his face.

“Tucker?  You doing okay there?”

Tucker opens his mouth to reply, to make a joke, to string together a sentence of comprehensible words, _anything_ – but he can’t, he just stands there, mouth open and mind reeling, because–

_Fuck._

It didn’t work.

_Fuck, fucking fuck shit, son of a_ bitch–

Tucker stares back at Wash – Wash, who’s watching him in the sexiest workout outfit known to man, with beautiful arms and legs and pecs and the most incredible ass in the observable universe, with ruffled hair and concern in his eyes – concern for Tucker, who’s been such a stupid fuck in recent days – and Tucker can’t say a word, because as every good memory of Wash he has comes flowing back, somewhere in his mind something finally clicks, and it hits him with all the subtlety of a brick wall:

_I’m fucking in_ love _with him, aren’t I?_

Wash raises an eyebrow at his silence, his head tilting – and Tucker sucks in a breath, his muscles going loose and weak–

_Oh, not only that – I wanna_ bone _that hot Freelancer ass of his, too._

–and the twenty-pound weight in his hands slips out and lands right on his foot.

“OW, FUCKING SON OF A _BITCH!!_ ”

Wash immediately rushes over, his concern switching to irritation, and as Tucker curses and sits down and curses and drinks some water and waits and curses some more, Wash pokes and prods and hums and in the end, declares it a broken toe, at worst.  A really bad bruise at best.

“Well, I think I’m gonna go ahead and deem this workout session a bust,” Tucker jokes, shivering as Wash puts a tiny bit of pressure on his toe.

“That’s what you get for slacking off and skipping last week,” Wash shoots back.  His tone is joking, but it’s also just barely tight, in a way that tells him Wash is probably thinking about something else from a long time ago, so Tucker decides to do the smart thing for once and shuts the fuck up.

Finally, the last nail in his fucking coffin, Tucker watches Wash poke at his swelling toe, his eyebrow pinched in the middle, in the way Tucker knows he does when he’s worried but doesn’t wanna show it.  Tucker looks on quietly as Wash calls up Dr. Grey on his radio, asking for what he should do about a potentially broken toe, concern veiling his words ever so slightly.  And Tucker bites his lip as Wash looks down at him in the middle of his conversation with Grey and _smiles_ , small and tight but _there_ , as he says something Tucker can’t hear and isn’t listening to, anyways, because….

Because he can’t escape from it anymore.  He thought it – the _exact_ words, just as he hoped he wouldn’t – and now, he can already feel his mind plummeting into darkness and doubt.  Something sharp clenches his chest, more painful than any broken toe; something like _watching Wyoming shoot Caboose, Grif falling off that cliff, the rise of Tex’s shoulders as she approaches furiously, Freckles with his cannons pointed in his damn face, the cascade of rocks separating him from Wash and Sarge and Donut and fucking_ Locus, _crouching before the psychotic killer himself with a failing camo unit and a dead teammate going cold beside him–_

Because he’s in love – fucking in _love_ with Wash, and what the hell is he gonna do about it?  What the hell _can_ he do about it?

Defeat settles over his soul, overtaking that awful, choking, all-too-familiar fear, because he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer to that, and it’s absolutely nothing.

“Tucker?”

Tucker feels his mind go blank.  Blinking, he glances up to see Wash staring down at him.  “Uh?  Wha?”

Wash, thankfully, just raises an eyebrow before frowning, taking a deep breath, and saying, “Tucker, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

_Fuck, shit, fuck me._   “Yeah, what’s up?” Tucker replies, as nonchalant as possible with the slightest pinch of pain in his voice and newfound panic swirling back up in his mind.

“Well, I’ve just noticed you’ve been acting strange recently.  You’ve been… distracted, and spacey.  Are you… okay?”

Tucker feels his insides freeze – _he’s noticed he’s noticed he’s noticed, fuck, fucking fuck shit_ – and doesn’t, _can’t_ , look Wash in the eyes, because dammit, if he does, he might just end up spilling everything he’s just barely realized himself.  “No – nah, I’m just – this is just fucked up, right?” he says, his voice just a tiny bit too high as he blinks at the ground.  “This whole war and shit.  All these kids fighting in it.  It’s messed up, y’know?”

Wash stays silent, and Tucker doesn’t look up, waiting in fear to see if Wash is gonna call him out on his bullshit.  Though, it’s not exactly _bullshit_ – this war is totally fucked up – but that’s not what’s distracting him.  Hopefully, Wash doesn’t realize that.

Finally, in his peripheral, Tucker sees Wash nod.  “There’s no denying that.  If… well, if you’re sure that’s all it is, you should be on your way to Dr. Grey’s.  You can get there yourself, right?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Tucker mutters, standing up and putting as little weight as possible on his fucked-up toe.  It still hurts like a bitch, but it’s a throbbing pain now instead of a stabbing one.  Small miracles.

Wash nods, and steps back, giving Tucker room to leave.  As Tucker makes his way to the door, Wash turns to him, and calls, “Wait – Tucker.”

Tucker stops with a hand on the door and glances back, praying for a safe escape – he’s _so close._   Wash looks hesitant, but he plows on ahead anyways, awkward and kind and so very sincere.  “You know you can… always talk to me, right?  About… anything.”

Tucker’s heart aches at the look on Wash’s face.  _Jesus Christ, this man is trying to_ kill _me._   “Yeah – yeah, I got it, Wash,” Tucker says, his voice tight all over again.  Thankfully, after that, he manages to get the hell out – not quite unscathed but ultimately safe.  As he limps to the infirmary, however, only one thought pulses through Tucker’s brain, shattering all hopes and semblances of denial and repression with just three words:

_I’m_ so _fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://aces-of-academia.tumblr.com) and check out the AMAZING [art](http://transaroshiro.tumblr.com/post/157721153272/so-heres-the-thing-i-drew-for) of wash in the first scene by the incredibly talented [transaroshiro](http://transaroshiro.tumblr.com/), it's such a beautiful piece and i love it so much y'all


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught between a rock and a hard place, Tucker goes to some of his other friends for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (weakly crawls into room) hey.....heres another chapter........after a year....................(im so sorry)
> 
> anyways additional apologies are in the end notes, so something more important: anyone who read the first chapter already, i'd go back and read it again before reading the new chapter bc i've added some ~*~plot stuff~*~ that ends up being pretty crucial
> 
> so umm yeah enjoy and also im so sorry

“The ability to turn invisible… but only between four o’clock and five o’clock.”

Grif raises an eyebrow.  “Both AM and PM?  Or just one?”

Simmons frowns, putting down the bowl he was in the middle of drying as he thinks for a moment.  “Just PM,” he decides with a small nod.

Making a noise of approval, Grif sticks another plate into the dishwasher.  “I’ll admit, that’s pretty good.  But what if you happen to need to turn invisible during that time?  Then it’s super convenient and useful!”

“Yeah, but what if you need to turn invisible sometime during the _other_ twenty-three hours of the day?  You’re totally fucked!  Come on, it’s a great terrible superpower!”

“I dunno,” Grif hums, leaning up against the counter.  “It’s still a pretty good superpower at _some_ point during the day.”

Simmons shoots him an irritated look.  “Let’s see you come up with something better.”

“Hmm…. Maybe–”

“How about the ability to _not_ be a fucking idiot in front of the person you maybe lowkey wanna bang?” Tucker interrupts suddenly, glaring listlessly at the ceiling with an uncharacteristic scowl on his face.

Grif and Simmons exchange a look before glancing down at Tucker, their expressions a mix of sympathy, confusion, and slight annoyance.  “Tucker, what the fuck are you doing here?” Simmons asks gently, sounding exasperated.

“What d’you mean?  I’m just chillin’.” Tucker replies, stretching out on the floor and putting his hands behind his head as he leans back up against the refrigerator.  However, his voice holds none of its usual confidence and charisma, and his face remains stuck in an expression of dull, tired frustration.

“Well, you’ve been sulking on the kitchen floor for the past twenty minutes, and haven’t made a single sex joke or bragged about how awesome you are or _anything_ since you got here,” Grif points out, pulling out the top rack of the dishwasher to put away a mug.  “Seriously, what’s your problem, man?”

Tucker sighs loudly.  “It’s a long story, I’m totally _not_ sulking, and – wait, why are _you_ here, anyways?  I thought you hated work of any kind.  What’d Kimball do to get you in here?”

“Nothing!” Grif says loudly, shooting Tucker a look.  “What, do I have to have a reason to do work sometimes?  Do you guys really think I’m _that_ lazy?  I mean – I _am_ , but–”

“Kimball kinda threatened to bar him from the mess hall if he doesn’t do at least an hour of _some_ kind of work every day from now on,” Simmons replies, giving Grif a smug look as he puts a bowl into the dishwasher.  “Oh, and that doesn’t count training sessions.”

“Fuck off, dude – I can’t live without food!  What does she think I am, a robot?!” Grif demands, slamming a handful of utensils into the dishwasher with an unnecessary amount of force.  “Seriously, just because Lopez doesn’t need to eat doesn’t mean I’m the same as him!”

“I’m fairly certain it’s universally known that people can’t live without food, dude,” Tucker shoots back monotonously, crossing his arms as he frowns at the floor.  “And while we’re on that, I’m pretty sure no one is gonna mistake you for a Spanish robot with a completely different armor color.”

“That’s not what I’m saying!  Ugh, _whatever_ – anyways, what’d you mean, someone you lowkey want to bang?” Grif asks irritably, glancing back down at Tucker.  “If there’s a girl here you wanna have sex with, I figure you would’ve either already hooked up with her or she would’ve killed you for being such a creep.  The last place I’d imagine you ending up would be on the kitchen floor, sulking like a broody teenager.”

Something jolts uncomfortably in his chest, and Tucker’s expression immediately sours.  “Totally not sulking _or_ brooding; I’m hiding, in fact,” he says loudly, in complete contrast to his point.  “And besides, that’s not the problem.”

“Then what _is_ the problem, exactly?” Simmons asks, raising an eyebrow as he dries off a plate.  “And, um, just a quick question – what the fuck are you hiding from, again?”

“It’s….”  Tucker waves his hands limply in a complicated motion, ending the strange, complex gesture by returning his hands to his side.  “…. _complicated._ ”

Grif and Simmons stare at him for a moment before exchanging a look.  Then, they look back at Tucker, with the expressions of a couple of very tired parents who have to deal with their grumpy teenage child’s shit and _really_ don’t want to, at all.  Ever.

“Tucker,” Simmons says, crossing his arms, “if you want us to help you or give you advice or some crap like that, you know what the first step is?  _Actually telling us what’s bugging you._   Seriously, we can’t help if we don’t know the situation.  Well, I mean.  We could _try_ , but that probably wouldn’t end well for anyone.”

Tucker contemplates this, glaring at the floor with his bottom lip stuck out in a pout.  The silence drags on, but Grif and Simmons don’t take their eyes off of the sulking space soldier.  The pressure slowly builds.  Finally, Tucker lets out a long, overexaggerated groan that lasts almost as long as the silence did and scoots back to sit up straighter against the refrigerator.  Looking up to meet their expectant gazes is a challenge, but Tucker overcomes it after another tense moment.

“….I already told you guys: it’s complicated,” he sighs.  “And when I say complicated, I _mean_ complicated.  Like, this shit is _no joke_.”

“Well, maybe you can start with, I dunno, the _actual problem,_ ” Grif says loudly, narrowing his eyes in an I’m-tired-of-your-bullshit kind of way.  “Like, telling us who you’ve somehow _not_ managed to successfully bang yet would be nice.”

Tucker looks away at that, flinching only a little bit, because honestly, he doesn’t know if he can answer that.  He’s barely just admitted to _himself_ that his ridiculous gay crush on Wash isn’t just based on how unfairly hot the Freelancer is.  He… actually thinks Wash is kind of amazing, and surprisingly doesn’t _just_ want to bang him – he wants to do more.  The specifics of ‘more’ are a little fuzzy at the moment, but Tucker knows it has something to do with the warm feeling in his chest when he’s around Wash or thinking about him or talking about him – something he’s never really felt before.  Hence the fuzziness.  And the general overwhelming confusion and slight fear.

The worst part is, it feels something like _love_ , and the thought of that is enough to turn that slight fear into something much more real and powerful.

But, no – the point.  He’s just come around to figuring all this shit out, and it’s _hard,_ even despite knowing that all of his fellow simulation troopers aren’t entirely straight – from what Tucker can tell, Caboose is definitely somewhere on the asexuality spectrum, and Carolina and Church are apparently both bisexual.  Along with Donut, who… honestly, needs no explanation, Tucker knows that, despite being a new arrival, he certainly isn’t alone in the _not straight_ department.  He’s got at least a few friends, some familiar faces to work off of.  To find some semblance of support in.  The completely meaningless fact that most of them are on Blue team helps, in some small, worthless way.

And that’s nice – really, it is – but his current problem?  He doesn’t know where Grif and Simmons stand in this whole thing.  It’s kind of hard to talk about sexuality when you’re fighting each other, going on wild alien quests, kicking Freelancer ass, and saving an entire planet from both itself _and_ a couple of asshole mercenaries.  It doesn’t exactly come up in casual conversation – Carolina and Church flash in his mind, and Tucker thinks, _unless it’s the matter at hand_ – and…well.  Tucker has never done anything to convince either Grif or Simmons that he’s anything but the straightest guy in the galaxy.  And neither of them have done much to convince Tucker that they’re anything but straight, either.  At least, nothing he can think of at the moment – Tucker’s fucking _exhausted_ after staying up almost all night trying to juggle organizing the missions Kimball gave him and thinking about this whole shitshow with Wash.  Sure, Tucker’s always thought it was _obvious_ these two are in love or some shit, but they’ve given no indication or acknowledgement of this – and even if they _are_ together or something, which Tucker _highly_ doubts, that probably won’t stop them from judging Tucker in _some_ capacity.  Hence, the question still stands:

_How the fuck are they gonna react if I tell them I wanna bang Agent fucking Washington?_

Then again, now he has another problem – Tucker _did_ barge into the kitchen, fully knowing Grif and Simmons were there and fully ready to complain at his maximum capacity while also hoping to receive some kind of advice on all this in return.  Yeah, okay, he obviously really didn’t think it through – would he be faced with his first problem if he did?  No.  No, he wouldn’t.  But, no; the point is that despite the little worm of fear eating into his heart, and despite the possibility of Grif and Simmons – two people he actually kinda enjoys being friends with or whatever – avoiding him due to being weirded out by him and his enormous gay crush, it doesn’t matter.  Tucker came here with a mission.  Kind of.  He needs advice, and fuck it, he’ll be damned if he doesn’t leave this conversation with _something_.

“Okay.  So, like… don’t judge….” Tucker begins, skin already crawling with nerves.

“Too late, already judging,” Grif chimes in.  He’s joking, but Tucker’s stomach gives a weak lurch anyways.  Simmons jabs Grif in the side with his elbow.  It helps, a little.

“…but like… ah.  Um.”

He tries to formulate the words in his mind, but his mental functions have dissolved into white noise.  His body is frozen too, which really doesn’t help.  More than anything, Tucker feels like a shitty old computer that’s chosen to freeze at just the wrong moment as the silence drags on and Grif and Simmons watch him expectantly.  Has Church ever felt like this, but in, like, a more literal sense?  Maybe.  Probably.

…. And they’re still staring at him, waiting.  _Fuck._   Might as well rip off the metaphorical band-aid, right?  _Except if this doesn’t pan out the way I really hope it does, it’s gonna hurt a lot more than some ripped-out arm hair and a few layers of missing skin._

“ _Ugh_.  Okay.  Fine.  If you assholes _really_ want to know the truth–”

“We _do_ –”

“Just spit it out!!”

“It’s _Wash_ , for fuck’s sake, shut up!” Tucker yells, finally, pressure both leaving and multiplying on his chest in the same instant.  “God, you guys are gonna give me a fucking headache.”

There’s silence, and Tucker doesn’t look up, and the tension and weirdly jumpy feeling in his limbs doesn’t leave, only grows.  His mind buzzes with relief and agony at the same time, giving him a fucking headache anyway.  And yet he waits, and he doesn’t look up, feeling for all this shitty, backwater world like a prisoner with his head on the chopping block, waiting for the guillotine to fall without knowing when the hell it’ll bring his untimely demise, because he can’t bring himself to lift his head to look and spoil the masochistic surprise for himself.

(Fuck.  Wash’s overdramatic tendencies are starting to rub off on him.  In the form of lengthy metaphors.  Nevertheless.)

Finally, after fucking _forever_ , Tucker hears Grif exhale, and sees him scuff the floor with the toe of his boot in his peripheral vision.  “Well, shit.”

Simmons huffs.  “Yeah, you said it.”

“I mean… this is just _unthinkable_ ,” Grif exclaims, just a little too loudly.  Tucker’s currently-hypersensitive mind whirs into panic mode.  “I can’t believe it.  I mean, I really just _can’t_ wrap my head around this.”

“Such a shocker, honestly,” Simmons sighs, crossing his arms by the sound of it.  “I’m completely baffled.  Totally blindsided.”

“Like Donut coming out of the closet,” Grif snorts, and Tucker’s head snaps up, because what the _fuck–_

His jaw drops, out of sheer fucking disbelief.  Simmons is biting his lip trying not to laugh, and his arms aren’t crossed – they’re pressed over his chest, as if he’s trying to hold the laughter in.  Grif has one hand on his chin, in a position that was probably meant to look thoughtful if Tucker was staring at him rather than the floor for the past minute, but now a grin is splitting his face and his head is cocked in a way that has Tucker thinking, repeatedly, _these fucking jerks, what the fuck are they–_

“You–”  A snort of laughter escapes Simmons, and Tucker scrambles to his feet, ignoring the pins and needles in his foot in favor of both the crippling relief in his chest and the _all-consuming fury_ overwhelming his mind.  “You fucking _assholes!!_ ”

“Sorry – it’s just–”  Simmons wipes a fake tear away from his cyborg eye.  Tucker briefly contemplates punching him.  “You know it’s kind of obvious, right?  Like, _really_ obvious?”

“You were being so _dramatic,_ ” Grif sniggers, and Tucker thinks, _I’m gonna fucking kill them._

“Then what the fuck was up with that round of 20 Questions, you useless assholes?!” Tucker demands, sweeping his arm in a wild gesture.

“Well, we were just giving you the benefit of the doubt, y’know?” Simmons explains, as Grif leans against the counter with shaking shoulders.  “Sure, it might be totally obvious to the _rest_ of us that you want to bang Wash, but we weren’t gonna spoil it for you if you hadn’t realized it already.”

“Or on the off chance you _weren’t_ talking about Wash,” Grif pipes up, grinning widely.  “Though, y’know.  The odds of that were kinda slim from the start.”

As he sits back down on the ground, Tucker runs a hand over his face and through his hair, suppressing a frustrated groan.  “I fucking hate you guys,” he deadpans, glaring at them in an icy way that almost echoes Carolina, but without the terrifying Freelancer vibe.  So, in a way, it’s completely useless.

“I mean – seriously, dude, this shit’s been going on since the crash site,” Grif continues, waving a hand in the air.  “You two were _living_ together, bickering like an old married couple–”

“Yeah – wait a second, why the fuck would you think I wanna bang Wash?  We argued, like, every minute of every single day,” Tucker says indignantly, thinking out loud.

“Maybe because you weren’t arguing – you were _bickering_.  That’s a _very_ big difference there.  Lots of room for angry sex,” Grif says, as if it’s the most important thing in the world.  “Then, when they all got captured by the Feds, you wouldn’t shut the fuck up about getting _Wash_ out, _specifically_ –”

“Because he was the only one on my team who got captured!  He’s our leader!” Tucker exclaims, sitting up in protest.

“And Sarge is our leader, too!” Simmons shoots back, frowning.  “Since we’re not _really_ in separate teams – not anymore, at least – Sarge is as much the leader of our gang as Wash is at this point.  Are you saying you care about Wash more than Sarge?  Or Donut, or Lopez?”

Tucker opens his mouth, and closes it.  “You know that’s – c’mon, that’s not what I meant,” he mutters dully, crossing his arms as he sinks down further on the floor.

Simmons opens his mouth to say more, but Grif nudges him in the side, shooting him a look.  “Yeah, man, we get it,” Grif says, crossing his arms as he turns back to Tucker.  “Still.  Doesn’t change the fact that you and Wash _totally_ should’ve fucked already, back at the crash site.  You’re obviously _completely_ in love with the guy; in my opinion, it shouldn’t’ve taken you this long to figure it out.”

Tucker sighs loudly.  “Yeah, yeah.  I know, I’ve heard.”

For a few moments, silence falls over the kitchen as Grif and Simmons return to their dishwashing duties, apparently satisfied for now.  Tucker stares at the floor, silently contemplating his next words.  When he speaks, it’s definitely with some amount of conscious effort.

“So, like….”  Tucker feels his muscles tighten again, as if in anticipation.  “It’s all good, right?  Like, you two are cool with… all this.”

Grif snorts loudly without looking up, the _you’re-kidding-me-right_ sound of it immediately putting Tucker, though minimally, in a more relaxed state.  “What, are you joking?  We have _Donut_ on our team, dude.  Trust me, it’s not an issue at this point.”

“Yeah – and what, like we’re gonna ignore you or kick you out or something?”  Simmons raises an eyebrow.  “With our track record, I think all of us are stuck together for life at this point, whether we like it or not.”

“Yeah – I mean, _no_ , but…” Tucker trails off, uneasiness still itching under his skin.  “You guys can’t stand Donut.”

“See, that’s because he’s Donut,” Simmons explains, looking exasperated.  “Not because he’s, well, gay.  How shallow do you think we _are?_ ”

“I don’t know!” Tucker throws his hands up.  “We’re all dudes here, it’s kind of implied that most of us aren’t cool with that kind of thing!”

Grif rolls his eyes.  “Dude.  I know there’s the whole _‘don’t ask, don’t tell’_ rule, but that doesn’t mean we’re a bunch of fucking homophobes.  Lighten up.”

Tucker opens his mouth, ready to argue more, but honestly?  He’s tired, and he found out what he needs to know, and he knows that no matter what he says, they’re gonna act like he’s either an asshole or an idiot.  So, for now, he’s done.  Well – only with the so-are-you-guys-okay-with-me-having-a-huge-gay-crush-on-my-teammate-or-not-please-just-tell-me-I-honestly-can’t-tell questions.  He’s still got other important questions that need answers – answers he can’t provide himself, so he’s asking… Grif and Simmons.  Christ, what has his world _come_ to?

“So what the hell should I do about this?” Tucker asks tiredly, scratching at the grooves between the floor tiles with one finger.  This is the last bone he’s throwing to the two Reds – most of their advice (if you can call any of it _advice_ ) has either been annoying or stuff Tucker isn’t really ready to hear, so if they don’t give him a solid answer on this one he’s honestly gonna stand up and walk right the fuck out of this kitchen.

“Bone him into next week,” Grif declares boldly, at the same time Simmons says, “Suck his dick?” in a questioning tone.

Tucker stares at the two of them, eyebrows raised.  Then, he stands up and walks right the fuck out of that kitchen.

 _Honestly, what else did I expect?_ he thinks irritably, storming down the halls to the sound of Grif and Simmons’ fading laughter.  He never should’ve gone to them for advice; regardless of their individual perspectives on gay shit, Tucker forgot to take into account the fact that they’re both total fucking idiots.  _Fucking Red Team bullshit, as always._

But – then again….

Tucker stops, and sighs.

Talking to Wash.  Telling him about all of… this.

Well, shit.

Tucker doesn’t consider it an option – because _fuck,_ that’s a dangerous idea, on so many levels – but… he _does_ tuck it away, in the back corner of his mind.  A last resort, or something.  If nothing else works, and this just gets worse.  Even then, he probably won’t ever tell any of this to Wash, but…even so, he can’t help but feel somewhat at ease.

It always helps to have a back-up, right?

~~~

After two more miserable training session and a nearly-blown mission, Tucker is just about ready to go out and find the tallest building in Armonia for the sole purpose of throwing himself off of it.

To be fair, the training sessions weren’t _that_ bad, compared to other incidents caused by his scatterbrained nature as of late.  Mostly, the problem is just the way he’s been so _distracted,_ and his inability to fucking focus on _anything_ for more than a handful of minutes.  The only thing he’s gotten out of it so far is a rapidly-rising feeling of frustration at himself – which, honestly, just worsens his ever-growing downward spiral of thoughts about himself, in recent days – and double the laps around the training room from Carolina in both training sessions.  The whole situation, and the fact that it happened _twice_ , was humiliating but manageable.  The worst part is, in the second session, he was so lost in his own mind while running that he actually _ran into Carolina_ , sending Tucker to the ground and earning himself a one-way ticket to Carolina as his sparring partner for the entire two hour session of out-of-armor practice later that day.  If there’s one thing he knows, it’s that those bruises aren’t going to fade anytime soon.

The mission was somewhat worse.  It was a small one; scoping out an abandoned warehouse they believed would contain some useful supplies.  Quick and easy, with almost zero chances of casualties.  Carolina and Church even went there several times before the mission itself and picked out all the places where Charon left traps and explosives hidden to keep curious strangers away from their property.  Everyone on the mission got the locations of the mines uploaded to their helmets, glaring red markers on their HUDs showing where not to step.

So, naturally, it only stands to reason Tucker would go into the area he’s ordered to patrol and nearly step on a buried explosive, too lost in his brain to notice the brilliant red light on his HUD glaring him in the face.  Thankfully, by some absurd stroke of luck or something just as merciful, Donut just happened to be walking by, and leaped forward just in time to pull Tucker back and prevent him exploding and probably dying.

Of course, it also prompted Donut to say something like, “We can’t have Charon blowing you just quite yet, Tucker!” to which Tucker only groaned and vaguely wished he’d actually stepped on the mine, if only to prevent himself from hearing that and subsequently conjuring up the mental image of Chairman Hargrove giving him a blowjob.

Regardless, as the days pass, every incident has only further solidified one thing in Tucker’s mind: he has to do something about this, because if he goes on in this state, he’s going to get either himself or someone else killed.

And yet, despite his recent revelation on the subject of whatever gay-romance-love-whatever feelings he’s now housing for Wash – and despite the icy fear that fills his chest every time he remembers that last near-disastrous mission, and the realization he came to after it – Tucker’s mind doesn’t seem to want to unclutter itself.  In fact, it feels like it’s just getting _worse_.  When it was only physical attraction, Tucker could deal; he’s dealt with wanting people for their hotness before, and he’s always been able to keep himself under control (well, depending on your definition of _control_ ).  Sure, this is the first time he’s thought of a _guy_ as hot in an I-wanna-bang-you-over-a-table-holy-shit-please-fuck-me way, and the first time thoughts and feelings like this have gone on for so long and so intensely, but at its core, this was still a familiar kind of desire.  He could work with it.  Well, at least – to _some_ degree.

But this?  This… heart-clenching, breath-stopping, I-wanna-stare-into-his-incredible-eyes-and-kiss-him-gently-and-make-him-feel-safe kinda… thing?  Emotion?  It’s new.  And very, _very_ thought-consuming in its foreignness.  Much more so than simple thoughts of _fuck, his ass is incredible_ or _how do you even get biceps that perfect?_ or _that’s the kind of hair I wanna tangle my fingers in and grip as hard as I possibly can._

Not only that, but there’s still that awful, real kind of fear has taken up residence in Tucker’s heart alongside the irritation already sitting there from this whole mess.  If he fucks up during a mission because of all this, and people get hurt, or worse?  He… honestly, Tucker isn’t sure what he’ll do.  He doesn’t really want to find out.

Usually, back at the Rebels’ old base, he took up Kimball’s advice and sought refuge in that little cave of hers (bow chicka bow wow).  The soft green glow of the algae on the jagged rocks helped calm his mind when he was feeling off.  It kinda reminded him of Blood Gulch, in a way; back then, when Church was feeling pissy – so every other day, basically – he would set up cans on the rock walls of the canyon and try to shoot them down with his sniper rifle.  Half of it was stress release, half of it was for something to do, and half just because they _could_.  He never hit a single one, of course – but somehow, sitting there in the dying orange sun, with lukewarm beers and Church’s high-pitched swearing and Caboose’s too-loud laughter ringing in the warm air around them, Tucker always felt _good._   It always calmed him, soothing his nerves and prompting something warm to glow inside his chest.  That weird radioactive algae place did the same thing; though it never captured the same effect, what with the stress of leading and actually having to be a solider and Wash and the other _captured_ lying heavy on his shoulders.  Nevertheless, it always made him feel _better_ , if only a little.

Now, he has nothing but stone-and-metal military-constructed buildings and an army of child soldiers in shitty armor to look to for some kind of comfort – but then, with the image of a somewhat strong, smart, capable leader to uphold, Tucker doesn’t exactly have much room for mistakes in the first place.  All of these kids are looking up to him as someone to guide them, to bring them closer to victory with each passing day.  He can’t fuck this up for everyone just because of a fucking _crush_ he can’t keep under control.

So he continues to train, and run missions, and survive, and think about Wash every second he has to spare and some he doesn’t.  Life goes on, and so does the war – but nothing, absolutely _nothing_ can help Tucker shake the feeling of being _stuck_.  He doesn’t know what to do about his feelings – he still doesn’t think he should go to Wash about it or something, because that remains to be a stupid idea and would absolutely backfire horrifically.  And he can’t really _talk_ to anyone about it; at least, not seriously.  It’s not as if he really _wants_ to, either, as much as that sounds like it might help.  He just kinda… wants this all to get straightened out on its own, so he can go back to feeling at peace with himself and his sexuality.  So he can stop lying awake at night, sleep held out of reach by the maelstrom of anxiety and uncertainty and longing raging in his skull.

And that’s the entire problem right there – it’s just not gonna happen.  No one’s gonna wave a magic wand and make it go away, and Tucker has no idea how to stop possibly-probably-definitely being in love with his best friend.  So in the end, he just resigns himself to his fate and halfheartedly hopes it’ll all go away eventually as he continues his duties and shoves down thoughts of how irritably pretty Wash looks when the former Freelancer sits across from him at breakfast, half-awake and gorgeous as fuck.  It’s the only thing he can think of, and even if it doesn’t _work_ , it’s a hell of a lot better than his scant alternatives.

Then, he’s halfway through his only solo training session of the week, snapping out of his thoughts to the realization that he just spent the better part of ten minutes staring blankly at the punching bag hanging before him, when someone taps on his shoulder and he turns to face Kimball, helmet under her arm and expression stoic.

“Come with me,” Kimball says curtly, when Tucker greets her with nothing but wide eyes and a dazed, half-stuttered greeting.  The cold fear that immediately jolts through his body must show on his face, because Kimball scoffs and reassures, “It’s okay, I promise.  I just want to talk.”

Tucker’s fear and skepticism don’t fade; he’s sat through several of her _talks_ before, and many of them, he suspects, are not as inspiring as she thinks.  Still, he follows her out of the training room and through the winding metal-plated halls, ignoring his sweating palms and mind full of swirling thoughts all the while.

It ends up taking them fifteen minutes of walking and a half-hour train ride to the outskirts of Armonia to reach Kimball’s intended destination.  It’s Tucker’s bad luck she caught him while training out of armor; the whole time, in place of all the games he has installed in his helmet, Tucker has nothing but his sword to distract him, the only thing he carries with him at all times.  Then again, with his disastrous last training session with Wash still in mind, he quickly clips his sword hilt back to his side, casting Kimball a nervous glance all the while.  It might ease his mind that she’s out of range of his blade, but he’s still not gonna chance it.

Of course, he also spends half the time daydreaming about Wash, but that’s not entirely unexpected.

By the time they get there, Tucker complaining about how much his feet hurt and Kimball telling him to shut up, they round the corner to find a dead end, at the end of which stands….

“A door.” Tucker says blankly.

“How astute,” Kimball shoots back dryly, stepping forward and yanking the door open.  “Gentlemen first.”

Grumbling under his breath, Tucker steps through the doorway – and stops short, eyes widening, because stretching out before them is a sight Tucker can say is well worth all the walking and rattling train cars to reach.

Rising from the ground and peaking high into the sky is a long collection of mountains, all huge and tall and sturdy, like nature decided to provide the armies of Chorus its own version of protection.  The walls of stone stretch high, to the point where clouds swirl around the tips and veil the snow-covered peaks with wisps of white and gray.  The late afternoon sunlight catches golden and scarlet and absolutely _brilliant_ on the clouds and stone, stopping Tucker’s breath for a moment with the beauty of it all.

 _Blood Gulch and the Rebel cave have nothing on this,_ he thinks numbly, craning his neck to see the way the sky turns pink and red to gold and turquoise to pale violet and indigo with the coming of night.  After weeks of cramped rooms and metal walls and the most distantly irritating feeling of confinement, it’s the second most gorgeous thing Tucker has seen all day, just short of Wash’s biceps in training this morning.

“Holy shit,” Tucker finally breathes, eyes wide as he tries to take in everything at once.

“Doyle… showed me this place, a few weeks back.  He’s not so bad, when he isn’t failing at being a leader or poorly organizing his army,” Kimball says gruffly, frowning a little as she takes in the sight.

“Right, right…” Tucker mutters dazedly, mouth still open a little.  After a moment, though, he remembers why he’s here, and tears himself from the scenery to look at Kimball with skepticism on his face.  “Wait – okay, hold up.  Didn’t you say you wanted to talk?  Is this about the missions?”

“Yes, I did – and… yes, but not quite.”

Tucker squints at her – the level of dramatic vagueness in that answer is literally Freelancer-level as far as dramatic and vague answers go – but she waves him off with a hand and, “In a minute.  First – the missions.”

“Right.”  Fuck, Tucker’s stomach twists into knots just _thinking_ about this.  The responsibility of it all; the possibility of _failure._   But – no, fuck that, it’ll be fine, he’s totally gonna rock this.  He _will._   “Okay.  The missions.  The first one’s scheduled for tomorrow night, right?”

Kimball nods a little.  “At 2100 hours, yes.  Have you finalized your squad decisions?”

“Yeah – and it was super helpful to see both you and Carolina’s recommendations, by the way, so thanks for that.”  Tucker scratches his chin, trying to remember who he’s sending on that mission.  There’s a total of three squads, each one composed of four people; names aren’t easy to juggle when he’s also unwillingly trying to burn the image of Wash’s gorgeous thighs into his memory.  “Uh, lemme think… I know the first squad is Carolina, Jensen, Greene, and… Andersmith?  No, wait, he’s in Caboose’s squad – no, yeah, Donut is in Carolina’s squad.  She thinks his throwing arm makes up for his… everything else.”

Kimball hums.  “What do you think?”

Tucker opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again.  “I’m sure it’ll be fine, if Carolina’s there,” he settles on.  “Now, who else – yeah, the second squad is Caboose, Andersmith, Verner, and Johnson.  Okay, quick question – who the fuck names their kid _John Johnson?_   Like, for real–”

“Tucker.”

“Okay, yeah, whatever.  The last squad’s Sarge, Lopez, Bitters, and Palomo.  And – okay, I know what you said, but I still think that team combo is a _terrible_ idea–”

“Oh, really?  Would you care to remind me for the tenth time just _why_ you think those four won’t work well together?” Kimball asks dryly.

“Actually, yes, I would,” Tucker shoots back.  “Sarge and Lopez are fine, of course, but how well are Sarge and _Bitters_ gonna work together?  Bitters is practically Grif 2.0, so we all know how Sarge is gonna take _that_ – and Bitters totally hated Grif when he started acting all Sarge-like back when Wash and the others were still captured!  And don’t even get me started on fucking _Palomo_.  If I, Lavernius Tucker, the _chilliest guy ever_ , can’t deal with Palomo, then I doubt those three will be able to.  Actually, on second thought, Lopez is used to dealing with morons, but Sarge and Bitters, on the other hand–”

“Okay, I get it – you think that squad’s a bad idea.  I understand.”

“So why are you pushing for them to stick together?” Tucker demands, giving her a side look of confusion.  “You’ve gotta have _some_ reason, right?”

Kimball smirks, just a little.  “As a matter of fact, I do,” she replies, giving Tucker a vaguely withering look.  “If you’d been paying attention to the Lieutenants, you would know Bitters might act like he doesn’t like Palomo, but he always looks out for him on the battlefield.  My guess is he reminds Bitters of Matthews, and those two have known each other for years, so keeping an eye on the team idiot is likely a bit like instinct for him at this point.”

Tucker frowns – if he thinks hard, he can kind of remember that from training and missions, but it’s not blatant enough to notice if he’s not looking for it – and shrugs a little.  “Okay, but what about Sarge?  How’s he gonna deal with those two?”

“Easy; Sarge and Bitters will bond over their mutual hatred of Grif – and if you’d been paying attention, you’d know they were doing just that at breakfast this morning – and I’ve heard from Sarge personally that Palomo reminds him of Donut.  Admittedly, that was more… the general gist of what he was saying, but my point still stands.  And then, as you said, Lopez doesn’t seem to care what’s happening, so he’ll likely help Sarge however he can.”

Tucker runs through everything she’s said, carefully thinking about each fact, and opens his mouth.  Closes it.  Opens it again and turns to Kimball, his face slowly transforming into awe.  “How the fuck did you _do_ that?”

Kimball raises an eyebrow.  “Do what?”

“Like….”  Tucker gestures vaguely with his hands.  “Keep track of all that!  This army’s so huge, how do you look out for shit like that?  How do you _remember_ it?”

She smiles a little; there’s so much depth to it, so many layers, Tucker doesn’t even try picking them apart.  “It’s just a part of being a leader, Tucker.  You’ll get to this point, someday, I can tell.  You have a lot of potential.”

Tucker snorts a little – even if it is possible for him, he doubts he’ll get on her level of seemingly being able to keep track of an entire _army_ anytime soon – and shrugs a little, content to humor her.  “If you say so.”

They stand together in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the mountains and the slowly-dimming sunlight with a rare atmosphere of calm surrounding them, before Kimball speaks again.  “There’s actually one more thing I wanted to discuss with you today.”  There’s a pause before Kimball turns towards Tucker a little.  He can hear the smile in her voice as she says, “So.  Agent Washington, huh?”

The fragile peace in the atmosphere shatters as Tucker whips around, eyes wide with incredulity at her suggestive tone.  “Kimball, what the fuck – I don’t know – what are you even–”

“Tucker, your eyes have been glued to Washington’s ass for the past two and a half weeks.  It’s not exactly a mystery.”

Tucker glares at her for a moment longer before he groans, running a hand over his face and through his hair as his shoulders slump.  “Jesus,” he groans exasperatedly, “am I really that transparent?”

“Well….”  Kimball puts a hand to her chin thoughtfully.  “Last I heard, Church and Carolina were pulling together a betting pool on how long it’ll take you to ask Washington to… suck his dick, if I heard correctly.”

“Wha – those fucking traitors!” Tucker yells, shoulders rising – fuck, he _knew_ that betting pool was bad news.

“I think Carolina actually bet Church on sometime during the next week, much to his… vehement disagreement.  And I heard Caboose bet Freckles on two weeks from tomorrow, but then again, he probably doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“…and what about you?”

“Sometime in the–”  Kimball stops, immediately.  To her credit, she doesn’t flinch, even as Tucker turns to face her, fury and betrayal written all over his face as he reaches for his sword’s handle threateningly.

“In the next _what_ , Kimball?” he asks faux-calmly, his head tilting to the side as his fingers wraps around his sword.

She swallows a little.  “Captain Tucker–”

“Yes, General Kimball?”

Kimball hesitates, swallows, and finally throws in the metaphorical towel, her resolve crumbling as she frowns at Tucker.  “I bet… sometime in the month after next, but only if the war ends, or comes close to it.”

 _That’s pretty optimistic,_ Tucker thinks, even as he makes an offended noise.  “Damn, how slow do you think I _am?_ ” he says irritably, before suddenly realizing the implications of his words.  “Wait – fuck, nevermind, forget I said that–”

Now it’s Kimball’s turn to smile threateningly.  “Sure.”

Tucker groans, rolling his eyes in frustration.  “Ugh, _whatever_ – anyways, what’d you wager?  Something _really_ good, I bet.”

At that, Kimball twitches a little, and looks away.

“Well – look, it’s only because Church and the Reds won’t stop pestering me about it–”

“About what?” Tucker asks, an edge of glee sneaking into his voice as he slowly realizes what this might be.

Kimball squints at the horizon, mouth drawn tight and cheeks lit with a light blush.  After a moment, she sighs in resignation and mutters, “…they made me promise to… to ask Agent Carolina out on a _date_.”

Tucker gasps _loudly_.  “Holy shit,” he laughs, unable to stop a fully-fledged grin from blooming on his face.  Upon catching sight of Kimball’s face – a picture of regret and irritation, complete with a cherry-red blush – his snickering draws out into full-on laughter in a matter of seconds, until he ends up holding his sides and leaning forward to support himself on the energy fence before them.  “Oh, _fuck_ yeah!  Man, that’s so awesome – wait – wait, no, wait a fucking second–”

Kimball casts him a confused look.  “What?”

“Why haven’t you made a move already?” Tucker asks, raising an eyebrow as Kimball immediately looks away.  “C’mon, you can’t say you haven’t noticed she’s got it _so bad_ for you – and you two are so kickass, you could totally make it work–”

“No, I – no, we… couldn’t.”

Tucker takes a moment to consider this, and when he finds no reason for her to say anything along those lines, whatever’s left of his ecstasy turns fully into confusion.  “Huh?”

A tight look of pain begins to form on Kimball’s face.  “I don’t think we can make it work – simple as that.  At least, not right _now._   I–”

“Wha – wait, hold on a goddamn minute – why _not?_ ” Tucker cries incredulously, staring at Kimball in disbelief.  _What the fuck’s she talking about?_

Kimball swallows a little.  “Tucker.  I’m interested in her, and she’s… interested in me, I think.  In any other time, on any other world, that would be ideal.  But here, it’s… a problem.”

Tucker’s confusion is rapidly turning into annoyance.  “Dude, how is _love_ a problem?  Especially in a fucked-up warzone – people need something to keep them happy!  What the hell are you talking about, Kimball?”

There’s a pause, and then–

“But… see, that’s the thing,” Kimball says, and her voice is so layered with bitterness and sorrow and fake calm that he can’t help but look back over, “about love in wartime.”  She turns to him, a brittle smile on her face.  “It doesn’t exist.  It _can’t_.  Not unless you want it to tear you apart from the inside out.  It might seem like a good idea at the time, but in the end?  It’s just an invitation for heartbreak.  Trust me, I’ve… seen it enough times to know.”

She stops abruptly, turning back to the mountains and reforming that closed-off expression, but not before Tucker catches a flicker of pain in her eyes – and it’s such a deep, intense thing that he finds dread forming around a growing idea in his mind.

“Wait – Kimball, hold up….”  _Shit – what the fuck–_ “…did you – have you….?”

Kimball sighs, and it’s so soul-deep _exhausted_ that Tucker feels something in him clench painfully.  “No, Tucker, I… look, the thing is, I’ve been in this war for a very long time.  Long enough to see wives lose their husbands, lovers losing lovers, siblings burying each other – people who love each other torn apart by death and loss and grief.  I’ve seen the way it _destroys_ people – to survive with the ones closest to their heart day after day and believe maybe, hopefully, they’ll be the lucky ones.  They’ll be the ones who make it out together, and live out their lives, and leave the war behind as a distant memory.”  Kimball’s eyebrows narrow together, and her mouth curls down into something dark and old.  “I’ve seen those people hold their lovers as they choke and die, or break down in the middle of the landing bay with the news that their significant other was obliterated by a grenade or a minefield, or just _scream_ as they face a reality they have just barely evaded for so long.”

 _Fuck._   “Kimball….”

She closes her eyes for a moment, and when they reopen, they are hardened and intense.  “So, to answer your question: no, I have not lost a lover in this war, and no, I will not be… attempting to ask out Agent Carolina, until I’m certain the war is over.  I have seen so many people brutally ripped apart by the news of a partner dying.  I’ve survived the deaths of many friends, but a lover?  Someone so intimately involved in my life?”  Kimball huffs a little.  “I might think myself to be strong, but I’ve seen others just as strong after their significant other has died.  I don’t want to find out how I might react.”

“But–”  Christ, this is so _tragic_ , he’s really not equipped to have more than one serious talk a week, “–Kimball, come one.  I get what you’re saying, it makes sense, but… haven’t you ever wanted to get with someone?  Even _once,_ just to forget about all this – shittiness?  To _enjoy_ yourself, and be _happy_ for a change?  To have something else to fight for?  I mean… don’t you think it might be worth the risk?”

Kimball gives him a wry smile for that.  “Honestly, I’d be lying if I said no.  But with the weight of leadership on my shoulders, and all of these – these _children_ following my lead, I cannot make any mistakes.  I have to stay focused, and losing someone so close to myself would be… undoubtedly detrimental to my leadership skills.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tucker mutters, crossing his arms and glaring at the grounds a little.

“That’s war,” Kimball says softly, and Tucker can’t help but think, _no, it’s_ bullshit _, and the fact that this is all you’ve known is wrong and fucked up and God I hate this._   Jesus, _fuck_ the mercs – the next time Tucker sees Felix or Locus or any of those black-armored goons he’s gonna run his sword straight through their faces, because Vanessa Kimball is probably, like, a depressed virgin or something, and she doesn’t deserve that.  Nobody on this stupid planet deserves anything like that.

 _Especially Wash,_ something in him adds.

Speaking of which…. “So, what, are you telling me not to go after Wash?” Tucker asks, turning to her as he crosses his arms.  “Because I’m not – I mean, I don’t _think_ I am – I don’t really know right now, but, like, even if I _was_ , nothing would be able to stop me.  Just sayin’.”

“It’s just a warning, Tucker,” Kimball says tiredly, “though that isn’t _exactly_ what I was trying to tell you.”

Tucker raises an eyebrow.  “Um… okay, then, what…?”

Kimball sighs, and it’s so _tired_ that Tucker takes pity on her and uncrosses his arms, letting his posture leave _hostile and annoyed_ territory to return to _we’re just a couple of friends talking and shit._   He’s nice like that.  “My _point_ is this: we are in the middle of a war.  I understand where the desire to be with others comes from – as you said, sometimes we need something _good_ to keep us going in times such as these – but Tucker… I hate to say it, but your behavior in the past week and a half has been unacceptable.  You’re distracted, sloppy, and disturbingly disoriented.  As your friend, I’m worried.  As your superior officer, I’m disappointed.”

Tucker frowns, his face hot with irritation and embarrassment, but… well, she’s not wrong.  “Yeah, okay, whatever.  I know, I’ve gotta get my act together and shit – is this supposed to be advice?”

Kimball frowns at him.  “My _advice_ is to _focus._   Put one hundred percent of your efforts towards winning the war, and look forward to a happy, _normal_ life after we defeat Charon.  One in which we can do whatever we want, and _be_ with whoever we want, without constantly waiting for those we love to be torn away from us.”

“That’s your advice on how to deal with my stupid little _crush?_ ”  Tucker snorts, giving Kimball a smirk.  “Sounds to me like you’re just trying to win the betting pool.”

“Well.  That’s just how _I_ deal with it,” she replies coolly, quickly shutting him the fuck up.  As he goes back to looking at the mountains, he turns her advice over in his head, considering it and everything it entails.

Focusing on the war.

It’s definitely what he _should_ be doing, no matter how he looks at it.  He can fantasize about Wash all he wants, but with the way things are going right now, Tucker knows he’s gonna be too chickenshit to even _try_ to talk to Wash about any of this for a while.  Maybe even until the war is over.  The thought makes him snort, but deep down, he knows that would be the best route to go – whether intentionally, or just because it takes him that long to work up the nerve to do something about all this.

He still doesn’t like it, of course – in his mind, when times are shit, you should find what makes you happy and cling to it with everything you have.  It gives you something to fight for, and something to look forward to at the end of the day, after missions and training and hearing which ones of your friends met the end of a merc’s bullet that day.  But then again, there’s truth in Kimball’s words, too – Tucker doesn’t really know what he’d do if the one at the end of the enemy’s gun was someone _he_ was so intimately involved with.

Especially someone as – someone like – especially _Wash._   Just the thought of it has his stomach twisting and his hands clenching painfully.  Tucker knows he can’t lose Wash – _again,_ that small, still-hurt part of his brain reminds him – but losing Wash _after_ romancing it up and getting with him like that?

Tucker takes a steadying breath.  Counts to ten in his head.  Forcibly uncurls his fingers and relaxes his shoulders.

“Yeah, okay,” he says finally, rubbing his neck as he looks away.  “It makes sense, I guess.  I’ll give it a try or something.”

In his peripheral, he sees Kimball relax ever so slightly.  “Thank you, Tucker,” she says softly, her words almost stolen away as the wind picks up.  “I just – it’s not that I don’t want you to be happy.  You’re… my friend, and I don’t – I don’t want you, or anyone, to–”

“No, no, I get it,” he says, suddenly tired.  This whole thing is so fucked up.  It’s all so fucked up, and he honestly just wants to be mad about it – and he _is,_ he really, really is – but mostly he’s just… tired.  It feels like some days, it’s never gonna end – the _worrying about everyone you hold close dying_ thing.

He says as much to Kimball, and she lets out a huff of laughter with no humor behind it.  “And you’ve only been here for… what, six months?  Seven?”

“Time sure does fly when you’re fighting a corrupt politician with an insatiable bloodlust,” Tucker says, the corners of his mouth turning up.  When Kimball smiles a little, even if it’s small and just a bit sad, his smile grows too.  Deep down, he thinks, _at least we have our friends and stuff_ – a thought he’d never relay to _anyone_ , not even Kimball.

A comfortable silence falls over them, and a warm atmosphere soon follows.  It’s… really nice, actually, to just stand there with Kimball, the glowing sky and gentle wind drawing away all other thoughts and worries.  Deep down, however, there’s still a small knot of… dissatisfaction, or something, at his new resolution, something not even this momentary peace can wash away.  It just… doesn’t quite sit right with him, despite all the logic and advice pointing towards him following this path.  He sighs a little, and resolves to ignore it – it’s not as if he’s not ignoring other, stronger emotions of his anyways, nowadays – and settles for just watching the colors on the mountain deepen and change as the sunlight slowly dies, taking this small piece of calm for what it is.

“Well,” Kimball says, after a long moment, “I have a meeting to get to with Doyle, and _you_ should return to your training.”  She turns around and starts to walk away.  After a few steps, however, she stops and turns back.  “I… thank you, Tucker.  For listening.  And – well.  Thank you.”

“Yep.  No problem,” Tucker hums, shooting her a lazy finger gun as he walks past her to the door.  Now that _that’s_ wrapped up and dealt with, he can head back to training – or to the mess hall for dinner, more likely, considering the sun he just watched set.  Hopefully they’ll be serving something good tonight; more than that, Tucker hopes he’ll get there before Grif comes and steals all the best shit.  Maybe he can sit with Caboose and Wash tonight, they haven’t all sat together in a while–

And fucking _hell_ , that stupid ache in his chest just won’t go away, will it?

He stops with his hand on the door.  Sighs.

“Hey, Kimball!” he calls, turning around.  She glances up to meet his gaze, eyes widened a little in surprise. 

Hesitation hits him – _it’ll do_ me _some good, but what about them?_ – before he steels himself and forging ahead.

“Just – uh.  Just so you know.  Carolina was the top agent in Project Freelancer.  Well – okay, no, aside from Tex, but _she_ was a robot AI brawling machine.  So, I guess, Carolina was the top _human_ agent in Freelancer?  Yeah, that – and like, obviously, she’s saved all of us a shitton of times, and she’s stocked up with all these awesome armor enhancements – like, wow, she’s _insane_ with her super speed, and her camouflage unit is the fucking coolest – and, like, she’s got Church with her basically all the time, so, y’know–”

“Tucker.”  Kimball glares at him, but it’s softened and exasperated rather than angry.  “The point?”

After playing with his words for a moment, Tucker swallows and meets her gaze.

“Listen.  I know you’re dead set on not hooking up with anyone until we hook Hargrove up with the UNSC, but.  If you’re looking to get it on with someone who’s definitely gonna survive the war, I really don’t think I can think of a better person than Agent Carolina.”

A strange, thoughtful sort of look passes over Kimball’s face.  She opens her mouth, closes it, and turns away, back towards the dying embers of the sunset.  Crossing her arms and relaxing her shoulders, she – well, Tucker’s been around long enough to recognize a person in deep thought, even from the back.

 _Alright then,_ Tucker thinks, pulling open the door with a smile.  His chest feels lighter already.  _That’s my one good deed of the day.  Now, let’s see if I can score some decent fucking food before bed._

Closing the door gently behind himself, Tucker makes his way back towards the heart of Armonia, shoving down the lingering dregs of his discontent as he goes.

~~~

_The path stretching out before him is white, and lifeless, and never-ending._

_Heat condenses on the inside of his helmet from his heavy breathing as he trudges along, forcing his legs through the snow that just seems to pile higher and higher every second.  One hand grips his sword’s hilt with all the strength he possesses; the other remains jammed against the side of his helmet, keeping his comm open in case someone finally decides to fucking contact him._

_“Hello?!” he calls out, putting his speakers as high as they can go.  His words ring out, and echo, and fade.  The wind picks up, blowing freezing snowflakes into his visor ten times faster than before.  He lets out a growl of frustration._

_“For fuck’s sake, where_ is _everyone?!” he shouts, kicking through another snow drift with unnecessary force.  His helmet’s starting to fog up, and his fingers are numb, and that irritatingly familiar bite of fear has begun crawling back.  “Come on, guys!”_

_“….ker…!”_

_Tucker perks up, his whole body going stiff as he puts everything ounce of strength he has towards listening.  Straining to hear something over the howling wind, he waits._

_“T…ker!!”_

_Heart jumping up into his throat, Tucker starts his march once again, shoving through the snow as fast as he can, because that was Wash’s voice.  “Wash!” he roars, snarling as he wades through the snow too slowly, too slowly.  Unless it was just his imagination, he sounded_ afraid _.  “WASH!”_

_“Tucker!”_

_And fuck, there’s Caboose – Tucker swings his arms wildly, groaning as the wind picks up faster, faster, faster, blowing directly against him and slowing his already-sluggish pace._

_“Tucker!!”_

_“_ Tucker! _”_

_Carolina, and Epsilon – he hisses, chest tightening sharply with fatigue as he tramples on._

_“Aquaman!”_

_Sarge–_

_“Hey!  Tucker!”_

_“Tucker–”_

_Grif and Simmons–_

_“Tucker, please–”_

_He roars, kicking through dense white powder – too slow, too slow_ –

_“Tucker–”_

_“Tucker!!”_

_“Please–”_

_“Tucker, come on–!”_

_Panic rises in his throat, and he gasps like a dying man as he thrashes, trying to get through this sea of snow, trying to get free, to_ move, _because his friends need him, they’re calling out to him, he has to_ find them _and_ do _something – before – before it’s too late, again, not again,_ not again.  _Desperation bleeds into his panting, and he groans in agitation, in dread, in_ fear _, as wind and snow and screams swirl around him–_

_And then, everything stops._

_Shock wipes his mind blank as he looks around, blinking dumbly at the perfectly flat and still world around him.  So different from the whirling, bitingly cold hellscape from just a second ago.  The absence of the shattering wind and constant torrent of quicksilver flakes leaves his ears ringing and skin stinging, even through his armor.  For a moment, there’s silence, and peace, as he cautiously begins to pull himself back together._

_Something catches his eye; shaking away his surprise, Tucker glances down–_

_Red._

_He chokes, a muffled curse of horror springing unbidden from his throat, and scrambles backwards, falling onto snow that barely reaches his ankles, now – but no, it’s not snow – it can’t be, there’s none of that pure, untouched whiteness around him anymore – there’s only–_

_Red._

_Red – and gray and yellow, and blue, and turquoise, and scarlet and maroon and orange and red and red and red and–_

_Tucker rips off his helmet; throws it aside.  Presses one hand over his eyes and one hand over his mouth, because this can’t be happening, this can’t be – can’t be–_

It is.

_The stench of blood, thick and metallic and sickening, fills his uncovered nose._

Face it.  Accept it.

 _But he_ can’t, _he can’t straighten or open his eyes or breathe, strangled sounds coming from his mouth as he kneels in a sea of red, surrounded by those he’s failed – his fucking_ family _, the image of their slack, bloodied faces seared into his brain – who he should have helped, should have done something,_ anything, _for – but he was too slow, too slow, too late, too late, and now they’re_ gone–

“Ghh–!”

Tucker chokes on his own scream, a gasp bursting from his mouth as darkness crashes down on him.  For a moment he just – lies there; heart pounding, muscles tensed.  Eyes wide.  Chest heaving.  Shock and nausea sear his body, red-hot, before they slowly start to fade.

 _A dream,_ he thinks, edged with hysteria and disbelief.  _A dream.  It was just a dream._

Taking a deep breath, he forcibly uncurls his fingers and releases the sheets clenched tightly in his fists.  He inhales, relaxing his shoulders.  Exhales; pushes down his churning stomach, and casts his mind elsewhere.  Gradually, his muscles relax, and the shaking subsides.  As the images fade, the sickening feeling of horror they brought ebbs away, replaced by a biting mix of shame and irritation.

“Fucking Kimball,” Tucker mutters, sitting up as he rubs his face and cracks his back.  Fucking Kimball and her tragic-as-shit _talks._   Fucking Kimball and her nightmare-inducing, absolutely miserable, _tragic-as-shit talks_ that make Tucker remember things he wants to forget – or just, you know, makes his stupid, stressed brain make up images of things to fuck with him.

 _Yet,_ his stupid, stupid brain says.  _You don’t know what’s gonna happen.  The first of your two missions is tomorrow, and–_

“Shut the fuck up,” Tucker rasps.  Narrowing his eyes, he shoves down that familiar and sickening knot of guilt in his chest from things that never happened, missions that haven’t gone wrong – _yet, yet, yet_ , that part of him whispers, continuous and ever-persistent.  He scowls and shoves it down further, until his mind is silent and the tension in his muscles slowly eases.

Unfortunately, his mind might be silent, but it’s completely awake now, too.  Groaning, he swings his legs over the side of his bed, stretches his arms over his head, and jumps to his feet.  After taking a moment to endure the blood rush from standing so suddenly, he rolls his shoulders and grabs a pair of pants.

 

Sneaking down Blue Team’s short hallway in the middle of the night is a challenge, and not one Tucker has much experience with.  On the one hand, both Carolina and Wash snore, while Caboose talks in his sleep; nonsense words and phrases, always with that childlike happiness that’s such a core part of the guy’s personality.  That way, Tucker always knows when they’re asleep, and when his quiet shuffling just happens to wake them.  On the other hand, one of the qualification to be on Blue Team is, apparently, the ability to wake at the slightest sound.  Hence, on the seldom other occasions Tucker has snuck out of his room in the middle of the night, he’s ended up with both Carolina and Wash flying out of their own rooms, inexplicably armed and ready to deal with the source of the ‘suspicious sounds’ they just heard, somehow, while sleeping.  Caboose – well, Tucker supposes he might be an exception, because while he can sleep through explosions and gunfire and the loudest of fire alarms, he’s also been known to pop back to consciousness disturbingly fast at the barest sound of Church’s voice.  Sadly, Tucker also has experience with this.

Now, he tiptoes down their hallway with bated breath, ears straining to catch the familiar twin sounds of snoring and Caboose’s sleep talking.  Strangely enough, he only hears Carolina and their big blue idiot.  Maybe Wash is still awake?

 _Wouldn’t be the first time he stayed up to late as shit hours polishing his weapons or whatever he does to chill out,_ Tucker thinks, rubbing his eyes as he carefully makes his way to the end of the hall.  Back at the crash site – and after Sidewinder, too – Wash wouldn’t sleep sometimes, instead opting to take apart and clean every single gun currently in their possession for some weird reason.  At least, Tucker thought it was weird, until one night at the crash site, when he too was plagued with a rare night of insomnia, Wash confided in him.  Apparently, all the shit he went through in Project Freelancer – and some stuff after, some things he didn’t want to talk about – was still stuck in his mind.  Wash didn’t go into detail, for which Tucker can’t blame him, but there was definitely a sense of volume to what Wash talked about.  That is to say, whenever Wash referred to Freelancer, Tucker could just tell – there was a _lot_ there.

Back then, his chest twisted a bit, with sympathy and something else he couldn’t name.  Now, he wishes he could hold him – gather Wash in his arms, and show him he can _trust_ Tucker, and get him to tell Tucker everything, just so that he won’t have sleepless nights anymore.  So that the weight of whatever he’s seen won’t be on just his shoulders, anymore.

Tucker huffs out a sigh as he leaves the hallway and enters the Blues’ tiny, shitty kitchen.  There’s not much here; a microwave, sink, refrigerator, a table with some stools, and a few other odds and ends.  Reaching for one of their two crappy cabinets, Tucker ponders how being awake late and having shitty nightmares always makes him more emotional and sappy.  Feeling around for a cup, Tucker squints through the darkness as something makes a soft sound behind him–

–and _fuck_ , someone is there–

Leaping back with a cup clenched in one hand, Tucker bites back a handful of swears as his vision adjusts, and relaxes a little when he sees, thankfully, it’s just Wash – until he tenses up again, brain whirring back into full panic mode because oh, _fuck_ , it’s _Wash_.  Sitting at their dumb little table, head perched on his hand, just kinda… there.

Tucker opens his mouth to speak, to say _something_ , as he struggles to find an excuse as to why he’s stumbling into the kitchen half-awake at ass o’clock – when he notices.

“Wash…?” he stage-whispers.

Nothing.

Slowly, quietly, he shuffles closer, leaning over to get a better glimpse at his face.

“Uh… Wash?”

No reply.  Or movement, for that matter.

Tucker grins, and shoves away a quick burst of fear ( _so still so cold red and white and scattered armor_ ) as the truth is confirmed: Wash is asleep.

The euphoria in his chest rises slowly as he gently places his empty glass on the counter and inches his way towards Wash.  His eyes are closed, and he’s got drool coming from the corner of his mouth, just a tiny bit.  His shoulders rise and fall gently, slowly, and his fluffy blond hair is lit up pale green from the shitty microwave’s glowing clock.  And he’s snoring a little, light huffs instead of his usual loud nonsense, and Tucker can’t help smiling because despite thinking _how didn’t I notice him before?_ he’s also thinking, _fuck, he’s cute._

Tucker swallows, once, twice.  His heart starts picking up in his chest again as his hand rises up, seemingly of its own will, and reaches towards Wash–

–just as the former Freelancer shifts and lets out a semi-coherent hum.  Something sharp and sudden spikes through Tucker’s chest, and he scrambles backwards as quietly as possible as Wash groans, his neck cracking as he looks up and blearily opens his eyes.

“Hm…?  T’cker… what’re you…’s my room….”

Tucker lets out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his dreads as he forces calm onto himself.  “Hate to break it to you, Wash, but you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Wash frowns at that, humming as he wipes at his mouth and sits up a little straighter.  “Kansas?  Not even… on Earth… _or_ the Mother of… fuckers….”  A huge yawn splits his mouth.  “Wait, what?”

“You fell asleep in the kitchen, Wash.”

“Oh.”  Wash blinks as he looks around, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair and making it stick up even more than before.  “Um.”

Something about the blank confusion on Wash’s face makes fondness bloom in Tucker’s chest, because he can still remember it – on those night, after Sidewinder or at the crash site, when Wash _did_ go to sleep, half the time he would wake up tense and filled with a sharp sort of panic.  Of course, Tucker wasn’t ever really there right when Wash got up, but it was obvious enough to tell the state in which Wash woke in the mornings, even a few hours after the fact.

Seeing him now, falling asleep in their kitchen and waking slowly, calmly, without a care in the world – warmth fills Tucker’s chest.  Warmth, and a sad kind of longing.

“So, um….”  Tucker glances up to find Wash raising an eyebrow at him, looking marginally more awake.  “What’re you doing up at a time like this?  From what I know, you’re not a restless sleeper.”

Tucker opens his mouth – _white and red and slack faces and not yet not yet not yet_ – before snorting and shrugging a little.  “Just getting some water, ‘s all.  I get thirsty pretty often, you know.”

“Believe me, I know,” Wash says dryly, a smile playing across his face at Tucker’s faux-suggestive tone.  Grinning, Tucker turns back and grabs his glass, just reaching the sink when Wash continues.  “Actually – if you don’t mind, could I have a glass, too?”

“Yeah, totally,” Tucker replies, easily reaching for the cabinet once again and taking out a second cup.  As he fills them with water from the tap – perfectly safe, Doctor Grey reassures them – Wash links his fingers together and stretches them above his head, his shoulders and back cracking in the process.  Tucker deliberately keeps his eyes on the faucet, not even thinking about looking over.

_Remember: focus on the war._

“Thanks, Tucker,” Wash says softly, smiling as Tucker hands him a glass.  Tucker just hums in reply, too busy taking a hasty gulp of his own drink.  Fuck, it’s _good_ – the best thing that’s happened to him all night, probably.

“So,” Tucker says, after downing half his glass, “what’re _you_ doing in here?  How’d you end up falling asleep at the kitchen table, of all places.”

Wash smirks a little.  Tucker ignores what it does to his heart.  “Honestly?  I just came out here to get out of my room for a minute – and then I was resting my eyes, and… well, the next thing I know, I’m waking up, and you’re here.”

Tucker gives him a skeptical look.

“It’s the truth, I swear!” Wash says, his voice mock-incredulous as he lifts his hands up.

“Right,” Tucker says, tone laced with disbelief as he smugly sips from his cup.

Wash rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.  “Believe me or not, that’s the truth.  And speaking of the truth….”  He meets Tucker’s gaze, a touch of seriousness rising in his expression.  “Tucker, why are you _really_ awake?”

Fear shoots through him like lightning, and for a moment Tucker can’t think – but then he pulls himself back down to reality.  _It’s just Wash, idiot.  He’s been through a lot more than you.  He can_ help _you._

Tucker takes a deep breath.  Lets it out.

“I’m… nervous.  About the mission.”

When he glances up, Wash is watching him patiently.  In that, he finds the strength to keep going.

“I know I haven’t exactly been… myself… lately, and – well.  These mission are really big.  They’re really important, and I’ve been fucking up a lot lately.  I’m – actually, I’m kind of surprised Kimball hasn’t taken these mission from me.  Given them to someone more capable, like Carolina, or – well, to you.”

Wash hums lightly.

“I just–”  Tucker sighs again.  Focuses on Wash’s steady gaze, and the cool glass beneath his fingertips.  “I’m nervous about messing it all up.  About someone getting hurt, or – worse, because of a mistake on my part.  And the worst thing is, I can’t even think straight enough to plan these missions properly – I _know_ I haven’t reviewed the one for tomorrow enough, and….”

He leaves it hanging like that.  He knows he doesn’t need to finish.  Instead, he stares at his cup, and waits for Wash’s input.

When silence holds, and he looks back up, Wash is smiling at him.

“I know you’re scared of failure – I can’t blame you,” he says gently.  “But remember what I told you? Before the radio tower attack?”

Tucker blinks.  “You told me to just… try?”

Wash nods.  “Yeah, that’s it.  And – see, that’s what you’re doing, Tucker.  You’re really… you’re improving so much, and it’s all because you’re _trying._   And–”

He stops.  Smiles to himself, before looking back up.  “Believe it or not, I’m proud of you, Tucker.  You’re so different from the person you were when we first met.”

“In a good way?” Tucker asks, only half-joking.

Wash smiles at him, tired and proud, and Tucker finds himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, finding Wash asleep at the kitchen table might be the best thing that’s happened to him all night.  “Of course in a good way,” he says softly.  Feeling warmth swell in his chest, Tucker thinks, _I must not be the only one to get sentimental, late at night._

Tucker opens his mouth – to say _thank you_ , or maybe – maybe, something else – but instead, a yawn forces its way up.  As he blinks in the aftermath of it, Wash chuckles a little, standing as he reaches for their empty cups.

“Come on, Captain Tucker.  Let’s get to bed,” he murmurs, places their glasses in the sink.

“Didn’t you just take, like, a five hour power nap?” Tucker whispers as they make their way towards their hallway.

“Well – yes, but it’s still early.  I’m gonna try and get some more sleep,” Wash replies quietly.  Pride grows in Tucker’s chest, at that, and he can’t help but smile.

“Better follow in your example, then,” he murmurs, nodding to Wash as they reach his door.

Wash smiles back, tired but happy, and manages a, “Good night, Tucker,” before slipping into his room and closing the door behind him, leaving Tucker with a lighter heart and a lighter mind than half an hour before.

 _After all,_ Tucker thinks, smiling like a fool as he walks to his own room, _if Wash believes in me, what could possibly go wrong?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really tempting fate aren't you tucker. and mmmmm that kimball part hurt me to write, ngl
> 
> but uh...hey....so...............anyways im really sorry about umm not updating for an entire year?? i just kinda happened to get out of rvb when i posted the first chapter, and i expected to get back into it as s15 aired but i ended up hating s15 with all my being, and then summer was awful and college started and uhhh here i am?? yeah
> 
> still i did have this chapter sitting in my files 2/3 of the way done for the last 10 months at least, so uh. im so sorry. yeah.
> 
> as for the next chapter!! i have no idea. the next one's the one i have the least of written, and i have a LOT of other things to write (see: the next chapter of my jjba fic, anticipated to be 30k at least) so idk when i'll do it. if this gets some more support, then maybe? but rvb is so dead right now that i doubt it.
> 
> in the meantime hmu on [the hellsite](https://aces-of-academia.tumblr.com) i might end up posting art there for this or something, idk


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